


Ravening and Dire

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ark Survival Evolved Fusion, Animal Friends, Crack Treated Seriously, Dinosaurs, Dinosaurs Are Surprisingly Reliable Narrators, Dinosaurs Are Unreliable Narrators, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Survival Sandbox, Video Game Mechanics Treated Seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-05-03 12:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14569470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: To say this is not where they expected the water to take them would be an understatement.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Same premise as [Survival Quotient](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9001999), but with 100% more alpha tribes and fellow survivors. (Both groups are playing on The Island map, but never the twain shall meet, in case you were wondering.)

Every muscle in Hannibal's body aches as he slowly comes awake, blinking away a crust of salt and sand from his lashes. His side feels like someone has run a hot poker directly through it, and the rushing in his ears isn't only from the susurration of waves at his back. Finding himself lying face-down on a stretch of empty beach, shoulders baking in the sun, is disorienting at first, worrisome as memory returns. It was night when Will tipped them over the edge of the cliff into the ocean below. If the sun has risen this far already, why hasn't he been re-apprehended yet? And where is Will?

Rolling over onto his back takes more energy than he would care to admit, but it gives him a clear view of the unconscious body stretched out on his right, a stone's throw away. Will looks much the worse for wear, hair slicked to his brow in wild tendrils, the wound in his cheek still oozing sluggishly, shoulder bloody and...bare. In fact, he's been stripped nearly to the skin, retaining only a pair of white boxer briefs. Realizing belatedly that he himself is feeling entirely too much sand under entirely too much skin, Hannibal picks his head up, looks down the line of his own body, and stares.

Those...are definitely not his underthings. Which begs the question: where in the world are they, and who has stolen all of their clothes?

He's only just dropped his head back down to the sand when he freezes at the crunch of approaching footsteps. It's likely too late to play dead, so he risks tilting his head back and around, expecting to see the police, a puzzled fisherman if he's lucky.

The man approaching from the thick wall of unexpected palm trees is tall and dense with muscle, sporting an unpleasant grin and at least a week's worth of stubble. He's dressed from head to toe in some sort of rough-spun white canvas, even his shoes cobbled together from the same tough cloth and bits of hide. He's lugging a full rucksack, but Hannibal is more immediately interested in the spear he carries at the ready, primitive but deadly.

The man's grin widens when he sees he's been spotted. "New meat, eh?" he rumbles in a thick accent Hannibal can't quite place. "Just stay still, and I'll make this quick."

Hannibal lets himself jerk in startlement, using that as cover to coil his tired body into readiness. Pushing exhaustion away, he waits until his attacker's spear is plunging down toward him before rolling sharply over onto his side. He throws an arm out and catches a glimpse of something glittering on his wrist, but there's no time to wonder at it. Clawing his fingers into the silt of the beach, intending to scoop up a measure of sand to blind the spearman, his scrabbling hand closes on a fist-sized hunk of rock instead. _Perfect_.

Rolling back over before the spear can be yanked from the ground, he fetches up hard against the shaft and pushes with all his weight, ripping it out of his attacker's hand. He swings with his rock at the same time, clumsily and utterly lacking in finesse, but it cracks into the man's knee hard enough to leave him howling with outrage and pain, leg buckling beneath him. Hooking a hand behind the man's knee, Hannibal finishes toppling the oaf, lunging up and setting his teeth in a scruffy throat. The man's shriek swiftly turns into a gurgle, then silence.

Swiping an arm across his mouth, he freezes when he remembers the thing on his wrist and turns it over for a better look.

The strange, glowing diamond set into his skin looks like no tag or cuff he's ever heard of, but he knows a tracking device when he sees one. However they came to be here, wherever 'here' is, he at least has been marked.

He checks on Will again and finds him still unconscious, though perhaps not for long. Will's face has gone tight with pain, a small frown deepening its crease between his eyes. It's imperative Hannibal sees to their wounds as quickly as possible, and it might be best to do so while Will's still insensible, seeing as they're sadly lacking in anesthetics.

Will's left wrist bears the same implant as Hannibal's. It doesn't reassure him in the slightest.

Shoving the likewise-tagged stranger who'd attacked them away, Hannibal pushes himself gingerly to his knees and begins stripping the man of anything useful, beginning with his rucksack. A quick search of the bag reveals unexpected riches: a skin filled with clean, fresh water; needle and thread; thick flakes of flint worked sharp as knives. A packet of jerked meat and another of berries. There are two different bottles filled with unfamiliar herbal mixtures, one marked with a crescent moon, the other with a lightning bolt. He can guess at the uses of each, but the most confusing find is a collection of nearly a dozen leather pouches topped with a needle-and-tube system that seems designed to _harvest_ something: blood, from the smell of the filled packs. Half are empty, and he wonders if this was their attacker's aim. They have nothing else he could have wanted.

He hesitates over the narcotic but in the end decides against using it. Not only does he not know its properties, but he'll need Will clear-headed as soon as possible. If he wakes while Hannibal's still patching him up, so be it. Better to suffer a little pain than be defenseless should another unfriendly local come along.

It's not the thorough disinfecting he'd prefer, but he sluices himself off as best he can in the ocean, gritting his teeth as the saltwater jangles his nerves with a reminder of his own wounds. He'll need to sew himself up as well, though he hopes for Will's assistance with the entry wound in his back. The palm trees, tropical heat, and the patchwork nature of their attacker's clothes point to them having been cast ashore impossibly far afield, and should the wildlife prove just as dangerous--

Movement under the water draws his attention, the shadow of something large coasting up the sharp incline where the sand drops away only a few meters from the shore. The waves where he stands lap just below his knee, the water too shallow for anything that big to reach him. That doesn't stop the thing from _trying_ , irresistibly drawn by the scent of blood.

The fin that rises out of the gentle surf is almost comically massive, but there's nothing comical about the snub-nosed jaws that follow. The shark is immense, its skin more green than grey, patterned with paler stripes that match none of the species he's familiar with. While he would ordinarily dismiss wild theories of pocket populations left over from prehistoric times as pure sensationalism, the evidence of his eyes has him clinging to his skepticism by his fingernails.

And then a small school of brightly-hued coelacanth swim by, only to scatter when a seabird the size of a large pony hits the water, slashing its long neck down to spear a fish in its beak. The shark--not actually a megalodon, surely--whips around and makes a lunge for the bird instead, rearing up out of the water as the startled bird takes flight.

Hannibal takes a slow step back, then another. Perhaps he isn't quite as safe where he's standing as he thought.

Only when he's back on dry sand does he dare to turn around, and then he scans the beach and the tree line more closely. The coelacanth he could explain; there are two species still alive at present, though both are rare, one critically so. The shark he could take on faith. The bird? He has no explanation whatsoever for the bird, which means either he's joined Will in his hallucinations or the world itself is not as he believes.

The stegosaurus making its slow way down a rise to the east certainly seems to bear that out.

He gives himself leave to stare for a moment then shakes himself hard. Now is not the time for distractions, whether this madness has its roots in his mind or in reality. Either one would be reason enough to get them patched up and to safety as quickly as possible.

He manages to cobble together the makings of a fire from the contents of the stranger's pack and a few sticks and stones scavenged from the beach. Sterilizing his tools as best he's able, he starts putting himself and Will back together, starting with Will's cheek. Will groans awake as Hannibal is tying off the last suture, but he doesn't really seem to come back to himself until Hannibal is halfway through closing up the exit wound in his own side. He can't decide if it was luck or merely the desire to put him out of commission, but somehow Dolarhyde's bullet seems to have missed anything vital.

"Wha...where are we?" Will slurs, wincing as it tugs on his stiches. "What did you--where'd you get the--who the hell is that?" Will finishes sharply, staring at the body laid out between them. As he struggles to sit up, his hand comes down on the haft of the man's discarded spear, his eyes going wide as suspicion dawns. "Did someone try to _spear_ you for the reward?"

While he hadn't been certain in which direction Will's loyalties would fall once they hit the water, he's gratified Will's assumption is that he acted in self-defense, if only because it's true. The thought may prove more optimistic than realistic, but he'd hoped to start their new lives as they mean to continue, not with another argument.

The dinosaurs are a bit more of a fresh start than even he had prepared for.

"I'm afraid my status as an escapee had nothing to do with the attack," Hannibal says, pausing to gather himself as he places another stitch. It won't be his best work, but at least his hands are steady. "From what I found in his pack, it's far more likely he was looking to harvest our blood."

"Harvest our--what?" As if drawn by the mention of blood, Will's eyes drop to Hannibal's hands, only to jerk up back to his face, embarrassed. A startled double-take later, and Will's eyes plunge once more, first to Hannibal's chest and then his own body. "And who stole our clothes?"

Hannibal shakes his head. "Not this one," he says, nodding at the corpse, already stripped to the waist. Coarse as the cloth may be, he'd needed the man's shirt for bandages. "And as to what may have occurred while we were both unconscious...I wonder if you would do me a favor and look to your right."

Will narrows his eyes but does as he's asked. When his jaw drops silently to his chest, Hannibal draws his first easy breath since spotting the...well, yes, it probably was a megalodon after all.

"Are...are those...."

"Three stegosaurus, two triceratops, and a pteranodon under a palm tree," Hannibal confirms with a perfectly straight face, merely for the pleasure of seeing Will turn the same dumbfounded expression on him next.

"I've actually lost it," Will breathes, eyes enormous. "Or I hit my head and this is some weird coma dream. Or we're dead and this is hell."

"Would you prefer I quote Dante or Milton for the occasion?" Hannibal asks through gritted teeth, threading the needle through flesh again.

Will blinks. "You're letting me _choose_?"

"I think you'll find there's very little--" --one stitch more, maybe two, at least from the front-- "--that I wouldn't grant you if you asked. Except a boat," he amends in a hurry. "A boat would be--unwise at this time." Tying off the last stitch, he cuts the thread with the edge of a sharpened piece of flint, wondering if the heat he'd used to sterilize it will make it brittle. Will might know. For now it's a problem for another day.

"Afraid I'll try to drown us again?" Will asks ruefully.

"I'm rather more afraid you'll cast a line and actually hook something. Our prehistoric companions occupy land, air, _and_ sea."

Will opens his mouth and closes it again on a heavy sigh. "So you're seeing it too, right? It's not just in my head? Unless it's all in my head," Will mutters, shoulders slumping as his eyes slide away.

"If I am indeed a figment of your imagination, I'm pleased to have been cast in the role of ally."

"The real you would say that too," Will points out wryly.

"True. But I'd hope the imaginary version would have the good taste not to enquire about the steadiness of your hands," Hannibal replies, holding up the still-threaded needle at Will's uncertain frown. "I can't say leaving a blood trail is ever advisable, but having already lured a megalodon, I have no desire to attract a T-Rex."

"Mega--are you--never mind," Will interrupts himself, shaking his head briskly. "Talk me through it, and let's get off this beach before something hungry comes along."

Hannibal gives in gracefully to Will's sudden change in demeanor, existential paranoia traded in an instant for grim determination. It's a trait Hannibal has always admired: Will's entire world could be crumbling around him, and still he'll find some way to forge onward. Having contended with that stubbornness in the past, it's a gift to find himself the beneficiary of it instead.

Will delays only momentarily when he discovers the implant on his wrist, but learning both Hannibal and their would-be harvester are marked with the same device calms his outrage for the moment.

"Okay," Will says after an unpleasant few minutes even the careful touch of Will's hands can't entirely mitigate. "I think that's the best I can do. Let me help you up; we don't want you popping any of these stitches."

"Thank you," Hannibal says, lifting an arm as Will gets his good shoulder under it. It rankles a little to be so weak, the blood he lost in the water leaving him light-headed and exhausted, but if Will intends to use that weakness against him, he'd rather know now.

"No problem," Will says automatically, preoccupied with staring up and down the coastline. "Looks like we've got two options: inland or to the north."

"Not south?" Hannibal asks, curious.

Will shakes his head. "Hard to tell from this distance, but it looks like the tree line stretches right out into the water. Probably swamp country out that way, and I don't think we want to know how big the snakes get around here."

"Agreed. I vote north, then. Our friend here came from further inland, and I doubt we want to meet his compatriots. Not while we're this unprepared."

"Sounds like a plan, then. Just let me get the--"

They both freeze, Will in the act of steadying Hannibal to stand on his own two feet, as a tiny, brightly-colored lizard in oranges and golds comes pacing out of the trees. It moves easily on its hind legs with a gait like an ostrich, a long tail stretched out behind it for balance. The instant it spots them, it chirps excitedly and makes a beeline in their direction.

Will snatches up their purloined backpack and threads his arms quickly through the straps, wincing as it strains his wounded shoulder. He grabs the spear next, holding it with more determination than skill, but the little creature doesn't attack. Jogging right up to their feet, it tips its tiny head back and trills at them prettily, as if it's never seen a predator.

"Huh," Will says as the lizard cocks its head to view him through one bright eye, then the other. "I...guess not everything is out to kill us?"

"I wouldn't be too certain. Some things only hunt in packs," Hannibal murmurs as two more of the things arrive to investigate the trilling of the first. He ignores the arch look Will shoots his way but takes heart at the soft, resigned huff that follows. "If you'll just edge slowly to your right...now step back three paces...."

By the time a fourth and fifth lizard arrives, they've managed to put the corpse of their assailant between them and the horde. Hannibal isn't the least bit surprised when their friendly trills turn strident once critical mass is reached. He's also not about to turn down the arm that wraps around his back, keeping him steady on his feet as they break into a halting, ungraceful run. Behind them, the tiny pack tears into the corpse with the ferocity of a school of piranha. Hannibal can only hope they've left enough of a meal behind that following them will be too much trouble.

"So you never said where you think we are," Will reminds him once they've traveled far enough to leave the pack well behind.

"I'm not certain if _where_ is applicable. It might be a question of _when_."

"I wish you hadn't said that," Will mutters. " _Where_ implies we can find a way back."

"Was there anything you truly regret leaving behind?" Hannibal asks, stripping every emotion but supportive curiosity from his tone.

Will remains silent long enough to begin to worry Hannibal, but then he sighs. "You'd think."

They say nothing more until their shared exhaustion forces them to take shelter in the dubious cover of a tumble of rocks at the base of a short cliff, and then it's mostly to argue over who should take first watch.

Will wins. Hannibal can't even force himself to feel ashamed of that, his consciousness flickering the instant he stretches out, curls over on his good side, and pillows his head on his arm.

***

Hunger wakes with a snort to the excited trilling of the Horde, their piping voices carrying even though the denseness of the undergrowth. "Did you see? Did you see?" he hears, one voice becoming three, then five. Hunger lifts his head in half-annoyed curiosity as the question is taken up by more of the Horde, even ones who'd been too far away to have seen anything at all. As more of them congregate, their shrill voices grow louder.

"Soft-skins!" the first voice interjects after a moment, and then all the forest nearby is ringing with the claim.

"Two of them!" one of the initial five adds. "Two!"

"No, three!" says the first.

"Three!" the chorus agrees. "Three soft-skins!"

"Not two?"

"Not two!" the first of the Horde crows. "Three soft-skins, and one was dinner!"

"Soft-skin dinner!" the Horde rejoices in sharp little clicks and barks.

Hunger's tail begins to lash, rustling quietly through the mulch. He's quite interested in soft-skin dinner himself, and by the Horde's accounting, there are still two left.

"But did you see? Did you? Did you see?" the first insists. "The big one! The red-eyed one! It bites!"

"Bites!" the Horde echoes in astonished approval.

"Bit dinner's throat! Bled it out! Like a Ravener!"

"A Ravener! A soft-skin Ravener!"

Heaving himself to his feet, Hunger shakes himself all over, sucks in a deep breath, and sends a bone-shaking roar echoing through the trees. It's not the roar of an alpha, but it's enough to scatter the Hoard, squeaks of "Ravener!" fading into the distance as they flee.

He growls into the silence, his own red eyes narrowing sharply. A soft-skin Ravener indeed.

Now this he has to see.


	2. Chapter 2

It's not even noon when Will picks his nodding head up from his chest, holds his breath, and reaches cautiously to brush his fingers over Hannibal's shoulder. Even in this state, that's all it takes; a hand shoots up to clutch at his wrist, but Will's already moving, rolling out of his tailor's seat and onto his knees half-over Hannibal. His trapped hand holds down Hannibal's shoulder; the other he rests lightly over Hannibal's lower face. He's dimly aware he may just lose a finger for that, but he's betting not.

Sure enough, Hannibal stills before he even gets his blurry eyes to focus. He knows Will's scent. Instead of struggling, he remains perfectly still, watching curiously when Will shakes his head.

Seconds later, they can both hear what Will at first had only felt: the measured tread of something heavy stalking through the trees in the forest above them. If it can smell them, they're dead; neither one of them is in good enough shape to run from something that big. If they're quiet, with luck and a favorable wind, maybe it'll pass them by.

Branches crackle under massive feet that move with a cadence more graceful than its weight would suggest. A smaller dinosaur shrieks in alarm and sprints quickly away; the big one pauses, as if it's considering chasing the other one down, before continuing on its patrol. It seems to be hunting something, and Will desperately hopes it isn't them.

Not until the creature turns at last to make its way further inland do either of them relax. Sitting back on his heels, Will runs a hand over his face, careful to avoid his stitches. It still hurts. "That was close."

"Too close," Hannibal agrees. He's paler than he was before, makes no move to sit up. "How long was I out?"

"Not long enough. Maybe an hour, hour and a half." He doesn't ask if Hannibal can keep going. He knows Hannibal will _try_. "Is it time to consider using those blood packs that guy was carrying? Or will they have spoiled already? What's your blood type, anyway?"

"Blood type won't be a problem," Hannibal admits even as his face screws up in fastidious disgust. "I'm more concerned about the primitive conditions in which it was acquired. But as the consequences of receiving or not receiving an infusion may well be moot...."

Will's already digging through the pack, setting aside the food he finds for after. He'd eyed the berry bushes they'd passed on the way, but not knowing which were poisonous had kept him from experimenting in their weakened states. Now at least he has good reason to believe the red, yellow and blue ones must be safe.

Though he can't see their contents, Will shakes each blood pack and listens carefully for non-liquid sounds, any sign of congealing, and finds nothing. He still offers each one up for a sniff test, half expecting to be laughed at, except that Hannibal sets five to one side in a kind of order and weakly tosses a sixth off into the weedy sea grasses.

Will picks up what seems to be the freshest and fumbles a bit with the needle end. "So do I just...?"

"If you'll help me sit up, I believe I can find a vein."

They work slowly. Will ends up sitting half-behind him, propping Hannibal up on his good shoulder. Part of him is seriously questioning his life choices: that he's doing his best to keep Hannibal alive, without causing any additional pain. That he doesn't immediately want to push away the body resting against his own. The rest of him is still questioning his sanity in other ways.

To say this isn't where Will had expected to wake up would be an understatement. There's a part of him that hadn't expected to wake at all, but waking to dinosaurs? The thought had not only never crossed his mind, it hadn't even been within hailing distance of the borders. In the moment he'd tipped them over the cliffside, his last jumbled, wordless thought boiled down to _all or nothing_. Either they'd survive together, or else they'd sink and never surface.

He's not entirely convinced they _have_ survived, but Hannibal's warmth and weight against his side is hard to argue with. He may not have Hannibal's nose, but underneath the tang of blood and brine that clings to them both, he can smell the man's familiar musk, too real and immediate to be a hallucination.

He watches attentively as Hannibal finds a vein in his own arm, just in case he has to do this again later. The blood pack is simple but efficient; in collecting blood, gravity and the victim's pulse likely does most of the work. Slow, steady pressure around the collection bag feeds the blood back into Hannibal's body. Will finds himself holding his breath again, steeling himself, because a lifetime of Hollywood movies tells him this is where Hannibal goes into convulsions, or starts clawing at his arm, or begins his final transformation.

Hannibal's slow, surprised inhale sends Will's heart into overdrive.

"What?" he demands, arms tightening when Hannibal shifts to pull away. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Hannibal says, voice already stronger than before. "I believe something may instead be puzzlingly right."

Will lets him sit up and sucks in his own startled breath, because the hole in Hannibal's back already looks better. Not just a little better; it might have happened days ago, the edges pulling together and scabbing over fast. Shifting around so he can examine the exit wound, he finds the same remarkable advancement in healing. It's not _possible_.

On the other hand, dinosaurs.

"Interesting," Hannibal murmurs as he examines himself, eyes alight with curiosity even as he palpates the edges of what must be a still-painful wound. "I'd wondered why we'd been left in this state."

"What do you mean?"

"Whoever left us here and gave us these," Hannibal explains, holding out his left wrist, "clearly had the power to mend us if they chose. Instead we're being encouraged to help ourselves."

"Oh, Jesus," Will groans, shoulders slumping. There's no way in any world that the prospect of Hannibal helping himself isn't utterly terrifying. Which probably means he shouldn't be feeling quite this resigned.

He needs to get them somewhere safe, away from the local wildlife but away from the locals as well. He's willing to trust that Hannibal was telling the truth about acting in self-defense while Will was still unconscious, but he wouldn't put it past Hannibal to kill the next one because it'd be easier than diplomacy. Charity isn't a thing Hannibal expects from strangers, and in the shape they're in, he's not likely to give anyone the opportunity to disappoint him.

They argue over the remaining blood packs, but this time Will only manages a draw. Hannibal administers himself two of the four at Will's insistence, but by then he's well enough to back up the glitter in his eye when he suggests Will stop arguing and take the third.

Will would have continued protesting anyway, except that he cringes in sympathetic pain at the thought of brawling with someone who's still wearing the scabbed remainders of a through-and-through, and he suspects Hannibal doesn't care even a little bit about the right to refuse medication if it's Will's life on the line. He's also still reeling a bit from having his weird implant light up and feed the knowledge _directly into his brain_ that his blood type has no bearing on the blood packs' efficacy.

He does feel better afterwards, his cheek knitting together to the point where he doesn't fear he'll spring a leak next time he takes a drink. He has no idea how any of that is possible, because _blood doesn't work that way_. Not unless something really strange has been done to them.

"Suddenly I feel a great regret for avoiding the... _Syfy_ Channel," Hannibal huffs, eyeing his own implant like he's leaning a little bit less towards digging it out with a sharp piece of flint.

Will tries and fails to avoid a shudder. If they're stuck in a made-for-cable reality, then this place is either a gladiator arena or an alien zoo. Maybe both.

Which means he's probably been cast as the helpless naïf to Hannibal's apex predator, and in a word: _like hell he is_. He didn't slay a Dragon to be brushed off as comic relief.

They stick to the waterline, avoiding the outskirts of the dense forest to their left. While the trees might hide them from distant eyes, it's too hard to move quietly, and anything might lurk in the branches or the undergrowth. Following the shore, they find only herbivores who take no notice of their presence: a pair of triceratops; a lumbering brontosaur; a sort of tuskless, moustacheless walrus thing he doesn't have a name for.

"Dodos?" Hannibal asks of no one in particular, eyes lighting up. Will just knows he's flicking through his mental recipe catalog, unable to resist the lure of dining on the impossible.

"Later," Will insists. "Camp first."

They turn west as the sea tucks in and cuts a channel through the sand. The river narrows swiftly the further inland it winds. It looks shallow enough to cross in several places, but getting there might be an adventure.

Like any river, it's a constant hub of activity as animals come to drink and others come to prey on them. He spots a stegosaurus, a duck-billed creature he thinks is some sort of hadrosaur, more trikes and a few small, flying lizards. There are also a pair of scorpions big enough to ride into battle, and an actual pack of what the _Jurassic Park_ franchise has unreliably informed him are velociraptors.

"Okay," Will says slowly, "so we might be trapped." They can always go back, but they hadn't come across anything like a long-term shelter along the coast, and they've had ample proof that the forest isn't any sort of haven.

Hannibal opens his mouth to reply and then closes it again with a frown, staring inland where the river bends. Following the line of his gaze, Will narrows his eyes against the glare off the water and sucks in a startled breath before he forgets to breathe entirely.

There's a gap in the forest on the far shore where a narrow valley cuts through, wide and flat enough for the riders that burst from its mouth to stretch their mounts into a dead run, only not a one of the men he sees are on horseback. He counts six raptors and two taller, long-necked beasts he thinks may be gallimimus. They don't slow as they approach the river, spurring their mounts to leap as much of the distance as they can, the eight splashing up sheets of water as they land and begin to swim.

It's hard to tell at this distance, but the riders seem to be looking back over their shoulders, their far-off shouts frantic.

There's something else moving through the valley after them, something he can only see the long back of over the lowering crest of the hills. He takes for an angry herbivore at first since it's moving four-footed, but he's wrong on both counts. The thing that powers out onto the sandy banks of the river is nightmarishly huge, striding on two powerful legs with its head lowered nearly to the ground to scoop the hindmost rider up out of the river in a single bite. Neither the man nor the raptor have time to scream.

Will stares, feet rooted to the ground. He knows the reproductions in museums and on the big screen are largely guesswork, but he feels reasonably certain he'd know a T-Rex if he saw one, and that's not what this is. He's having trouble comprehending the sheer size of the thing, and he has to wonder how the creature's prey managed to miss seeing it long enough to gain its attention.

One of the raptor riders shouts something at the other two, who have already made the far bank, holding back their gallis from bolting. A furious arm-wave contains a clear order: _get out of here_. The gallis race off upriver in a bust of speed as the remaining raptors leap the rest of the way to dry land. Another shout has them splitting up in different directions as the behemoth lunges for the closest, jaws snapping on empty air.

Will's heart leaps into his mouth as one of the riders bolts into the woods on their side of the shore, but it seems like no one wants to chance the forest. The rider veers only a little of the way into the trees before circling back to head upriver again. The others all head west to varying degrees, drawing the giant after them. _Everything_ scatters at its approach, leaving the banks of the river empty even after it climbs a rise and plunges into the trees, leaving a trail of splintered branches and leaning trunks in its wake.

"That...was definitely not in any of the movies," Will says when he finally finds his voice.

"Hm." Hannibal's unflappable poise used to frustrate him. Now it frustrates him _and_ lends him a measure of that same calm.

"Think it'll be back?"

"I think a creature that size likely has a correspondingly large territory. If it does return, hopefully we'll prove too small a mouthful to interest it."

Will takes another long look upstream, but nothing stirs on either bank. "If we're going to cross over, we should probably do it now."

"Agreed."

By unspoken agreement, they avoid the valley passage and continue to skirt the shoreline. Will's feeling less and less picky about their destination as the hours wear on. He'd initially hoped to find a cave of some sort, at least a depression in the rocks, but now he'll settle for anywhere they can put their backs against. A little after midday, they reach a stubby peninsula where the shore juts out and climbs to a tall crest with a sheer drop; it'd be a decently fortified place if they had time to wall it off. It's possible someone else had the same idea at some point, though all that's left to even hint at a previous encampment is a crumbling stone pillar and a metal chest containing someone's research notes on the giant scorpions.

As it is, Will's more interested in the steep path bisecting the point that leads back down to the sea. They'd have more than one exit if they needed it, and not necessarily another blind leap into the water below.

Near the base of the twin cliffs, they find a primitive chest, waterlogged and bleached by the elements. The handful of seeds left inside have sprouted then withered, and the rotting scraps of cloth that might once have been clothes fall apart in Will's hands, but there's a rough-hewn mortar and pestle and a cookpot that's miraculously still intact, enough spare flint to let them get a fire going without dulling their more useful pieces.

"Looks like someone left emergency supplies and never came back for them," Will says, rooting a little deeper and finding arrowheads, though the shafts and fletching are useless. "Think that's a good sign or a bad one?"

"Bad for them, good for us," Hannibal decides. "The cliff is more visible than I'd like, but I think we could make it work."

"If no one spots us before we're ready, anyway." He glances over as Hannibal arches a brow, the faintest suggestion of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Oh, no. Do not take that as a challenge. Or did you forget those guys we saw were riding dinosaurs?"

"Which suggests they can be tamed."

It takes a beat to realize what Hannibal's getting at, and he straightens from his perusal of the abandoned chest with a jerk, holding his hands up before him. "Hey, no--my dogs were strays, not feral. I'm not some kind of animal whisperer!" At least Hannibal doesn't look surprised. Most people hear 'seven dogs' and assume two things: that he's desperately lonely and that he has magical powers.

"Forgive me if I lean on your experience regardless. We had animals when I was a child, but I never had a hand in training them."

Will's seen the Lecter estate. He imagines there used to be dogs, a stable. At least one horse. Hannibal strikes him as the sort of man who can't conceive of anyone _not_ knowing how to ride.

"Let's just worry about living through the night first," Will says with a sigh.

"I did see a pond back by the tree line," Hannibal replies, perfectly obliging now that he's got a foot in the door. "Would you care to give spear fishing a try?"

"If I catch it, think you could cook it?"

Hannibal smirks. "I'm sure I could manage something."

The fish in the pond are fat and slow, too complacent to swim away when Will wades in to spear a pair for their dinner. He doesn't argue the danger of being tracked by the smoke of a fire. They're still healing; they need the nutrients.

It gets cold that night, though they're still a good distance from the snowy, mountainous area that sits a little further north. When Hannibal begins, unasked, to layer wide palm fronds into two separate piles, Will rolls his eyes and drags his own bedding over to join Hannibal's.

"This is every stranded on an alien planet, huddling for warmth cliché ever," Will complains as he pulls a blanket of leaves over them both. If it weren't for Hannibal's wound, he'd shove the man over onto his side preemptively. He refuses to be the little spoon in this relationship.

"What exactly have you been reading?"

"Shut up," Will grumbles. Hannibal wisely holds his tongue, but Will can feel his amusement in the narrow space between them he knows will be obliterated by morning.

They don't go far afield the next day, not after Will discovers, completely by accident, that his implant will give eerily precise instructions on how to construct primitive tools. His hands even seem to know the trick of it after, like muscle memory had been included in the data dump. He has to put his materials down twice and go take a walk, hands shaking the entire time. He's struggled all his life with keeping his own mind and thoughts separate from others'. Now their survival hinges on letting his brain be hijacked on purpose.

"It doesn't bother you?" he asks when he finds Hannibal crushing the black berries they've so far avoided into a portion of the stinking mess of a carcass they'd found washed up on the beach that morning. There's no earthly reason for him to be doing that unless it's something his implant suggested; Will's not convinced he wants to know what _for_.

Looking up from the mortar and pestle--and Will really hopes he's going to clean that thoroughly before using it for anything else--Hannibal tilts his head, gazing up at him thoughtfully. "Having managed thus far to live, I see no reason not to continue, even if the means are unorthodox."

It's good advice. Will knows it. It's just hard not to feel invaded.

They have an axe and a pick and another spear before they turn in that evening, and shallow stone bowls full of narcotics and stimulants. He's almost afraid to ask who Hannibal intends to use those on, right up to the moment Hannibal announces it's time for their stitches to come out, and yes he will be requiring Will's assistance. Though the process of removal is more uncomfortable than painful, he wonders morbidly which he'll choose if he's ever so gravely injured again: the frankly ludicrous alchemy their implants suggest or just toughing through it, trusting Hannibal to hurt him no more than necessary.

The idea should feel strange, even impossible, but having shed the greater portion of his naivety where Hannibal is concerned, he finds it makes perfect sense.

Belly still full from a dinner of spit-roasted dodo, served with a berry glaze on the finest, flattest rocks the beach has to offer, Will drops off easily that night. He doesn't even huff in annoyance when Hannibal shifts that final inch closer before he's all the way under. He's gotten used to sleeping next to someone. He ought to be wary, but instead it's comfortable.

He wakes in the middle of the night to brilliant, blue light and a buzzing hum that's getting closer. Hannibal's up and moving in an instant, hauling Will to his feet and pausing only long enough to kick their bedding into disarray before heading downslope. Grabbing their spears and scrambling after him, Will glances over his shoulder and does a startled double-take at what he sees.

A tall shaft of light with no concrete anchor on either end spears down from the heavens, lighting up the ground around the sturdy tree under which they'd taken shelter. He has to wonder if this is what happened to the makers of that stone pillar. If it's an attack, it's a painfully slow one; they have time to find a hiding place in the rocks, moving from boulder to boulder until they find a vantage that offers a clear view of the peninsula's crest.

At first nothing seems to happen, but as the buzzing grows louder, Will finally spots an object high above amidst the eye-searing glow. It's roughly diamond-shaped, strongly reminiscent of their implants, but for all his staring, he can't tell what's keeping it in the air. The thing is just...hovering, lowering down like some unseen force is spooling out an invisible line. If he hadn't had his suspicions already, aliens are seeming more plausible an explanation by the moment.

The buzzing object touches down silently, and then it sits, balanced on its point in defiance of gravity. It doesn't erupt with laser fire, blow up, or disgorge monsters from some hidden door. It seems completely harmless, except that it's painting a giant target over their location that must be visible for miles.

Looking over at Hannibal to gauge his reaction, Will freezes when he sees two bobbing points of torchlight emerging from the woods further south. Riders, he thinks; they're moving too fast to be coming on foot.

"Han--"

Hannibal touches his arm with a silent nod. He's otherwise perfectly still, watching the approaching lights with an intensity that doesn't bode well for the riders.

Will opens his mouth but swallows his words, torn. He just doesn't have the energy at this point to pretend he's not harboring a killer inside him, but that doesn't mean he's ready to indiscriminately murder his way across two timelines. Or planets. Or whatever. On the other hand, the only local they've met so far tried to kill them and harvest their blood, and for all they know, that's the norm. Holding back, giving in to uncertainty, could get them both killed.

But why are those two riding _toward_ the glowy alien pod in the first place?

"They might have information," Will murmurs, keeping his voice down just in case.

Hannibal barely moves, cocking his head just a fraction to the right as if to better hear the next words out of Will's mouth. Will doesn't have any. He's not going to ask for mercy or for Hannibal to let those two go afterwards. He's pretty sure Hannibal would if he asked. He's also sure half-measures like that are what get you embroiled in a range war.

Hannibal's silence turns thoughtful, but before he can reply, raucous whoops and a deep, scratchy squawk echoes to them over the water. The bobbing of the torches stops and bunches closer together, turning in tight half-circles: wary, defensive. Before Will can quite make out where the danger is coming from, three large, dark shapes swoop down out of the clouds to a chorus of jeering, human catcalls. One of the torches goes flying an ominous distance as the three flyers sweep low across the beach, pulling up as the popping of small arms fire rings out in chase of them.

When the fliers wheel around for another pass, the remaining rider flings down his torch and spurs his mount into a gallop, racing away in the dark.

Will remains utterly still as the muffled beat of huge wings comes closer. He feels terrifyingly exposed, his pale skin and white shorts a beacon in the dark, but the jittery glow of the pod makes all their edges strange. If he didn't know Hannibal was right there beside him, he might have taken him for another tumble of rock.

He's only dimly surprised to watch three saddled pteranodons glide in for a landing, each one carrying a rider. The three humans are all male, scarred and fit. The two younger ones are kitted out in handcrafted leather gear with a decidedly frontier look; the oldest, who looks maybe Will's age, is armored in plates carved from some creature's carapace.

The younger two are still laughing, giddy from the chase.

"Didja see that?" the dark-haired one crows as he swings down from his mount, landing on the balls of his feet. "Boom! Right out of the saddle!"

"Your aim's getting better," the eldest drawls in half-friendly mockery.

"So's theirs," the third grumbles, touching his right ear with a wince and pulling his hand away to examine his fingers. "Fucker winged me." His voice wobbles in delayed reaction, and all Will can think is _Good_.

"You'll live," the eldest says, striding for the pod without looking back. "Let's just hope this isn't another blueprint. The lads upstairs been stingy with their toys tonight."

Will frowns. Blueprints? Toys? That sounds like this is some kind of supply drop, not an attack. Just what is inside that pod that it's worth someone's life?

When the raiding band's leader presses his left palm flat to the pod's smooth face, two panels split along a hidden seam with a pneumatic hiss. Leaning forward eagerly, the man freezes at whatever he sees, shoulders tightening in irritation.

"Ah, fuck. Another crossbow?"

The instant he hauls out the disappointing weapon, the pod dissolves like something right out of a holodeck scene. The towering column of blue light winks out simultaneously, plunging them into darkness with bright trails branded across their eyes.

Hannibal is up and moving before Will even thinks to glance his way.

The first man goes down without a sound, neck broken so swiftly Hannibal makes it look effortless. One of the pteranodons grinds out a hoarse sound of alarm, rearing back on its hind legs and flapping its wings as Hannibal lowers the dead man quietly to the grass. The two remaining raiders look over without much interest, right up until Hannibal grabs the younger of the two by the hair, yanks his head back, and draws the business end of a sharpened piece of flint across his throat.

The leader barks a curse, dropping the unloaded crossbow as his hands fly to the strap of a slung rifle. Already sprinting forward, Will allows himself a brief moment to really appreciate the absurdity of attacking a fully-armored man with a gun while he's practically naked and armed with a spear. In the next moment he's discovering a devout respect for the mechanics of _reach_ as the raider reels backwards, throwing up an arm to ward off the spearpoint aimed at his face.

The first thrust glances off the armored plate strapped to the man's forearm. Instead of catching him in the throat, the tip of Will's spear slices into his cheek and judders off the bone, gouging deep until it jars to a stop against the orbital ridge.

Screaming, half-blind, the raider gives up on trying to shoot Will and swings the rifle like a club. Will dances out of the way, circling to keep on the man's left. In trying to keep Will in his sights, the raider turns his back on Hannibal.

Will can't say for certain where his grin is coming from as two arms snake around the raider from behind, holding him still, but he knows what his answer will be if Hannibal asks how he feels.

Righteous. He feels righteous.

He'd almost wonder if Hannibal somehow brought them here on purpose, except that for one of Hannibal's machinations, they're a little underdressed.

Hannibal lets the man drop after Will opens his throat, pulling the rifle from nerveless fingers and offering it to Will without hesitation. Rolling the twitching body over, he begins methodically stripping the man of everything useful before he's even dead. Will watches for a moment before squaring his shoulders and turning to the other bodies. It's going to be tough to get the blood of a slit throat out of leather, but they need clothes.

If he'd thought the pteranodons would stay put just because they're in tack, one step in their direction proves him wrong. Already shuffling nervously at the sudden attack or the scent of blood, they flail their way into the air amidst a chorus of panicked squawks, beating a swift retreat. Will stops in his tracks, upset at having any animal run from him, but also all too aware of the missed opportunity. If they could take to the air when danger threatens, they'd be a lot safer than they are now. Then again, running isn't really the first impulse for either of them.

"What about the one that fell earlier?" Will asks as he forces himself into motion once more. "Down on the beach."

"It wouldn't be prudent to go looking in the dark," Hannibal replies after a brief moment of thought. "Perhaps in the morning, if nothing's dragged the body away."

Will doesn't point out that the 'body' might still be alive. Probably Hannibal's right, or will be soon enough, and the enemy of their enemy might just turn out to be the bigger opportunist.

Taking the wait-and-see approach turns out to be a wise decision. They're still searching the bodies when a whole line of torches comes bobbing out of the trees, fanning out in a search pattern where that first dropped torch had gone dark. There's a brief commotion of people mounting and dismounting, either retrieving their fallen friend or pragmatically stripping the remains. They don't come up the peninsula or climb the rise to the top; with no supply pod to draw them, they do exactly what they came for and head straight back to safety. Will can't say he blames them.

"Think it's safe to catch another few hours of sleep?" Will asks as they roll the last body over the edge of the cliff. It lands with a splash, the tide having come in; if it isn't simply swept out to sea, the megalodons should finish it off. Hannibal sighs as he watches it go, still sulking in his dignified way because they don't dare risk a fire. It's too hot even in the middle of the night for uncooked flesh to keep for long, but Will feels certain Hannibal will find plenty of opportunities to indulge.

"At least we're more prepared for interruptions."

They don't bother to dress as they pull their bedding back together, not in the armor they stripped off the bodies or the lighter homespun they found in the younger raiders' packs. It really is that hot. And maybe after three years behind glass, Hannibal misses the press of skin against skin. Will doesn't mind.

If nothing else, sleeping with his head pillowed on Hannibal's shoulder--big spoon, damn it, even if he's more of a half-body blanket right now--lets him know exactly where Hannibal is at all times.

***

Windshear watches in stunned dismay as the two stranger soft-skins decimate their own, despite their lack of coverings or metal spitters. They only have claws of stone and wood, and one doesn't even need _those_ , snapping the neck of Flamegust's captor with its bare paws.

He can't say he's sorry to see any of them go, but he's learned a thing or two about soft-skins from living amongst them, and he knows they only have two things on their vicious little minds: killing and food, and they're not particularly picky about either. Having killed, they're going to be hungry, and the only thing to eat on this empty stretch of grass is them.

"Oh no," Greensprig chirps in strangled horror, shuffling cautiously back as the littler soft-skin turns towards them. "Oh no--it's looking this way!"

"Get in the air!" Windshear orders, taking his own advice. The others don't need to be told a second time. With no rider to stop them or whistle them back, they bolt for the river and the safety of the quiet shores on the opposite side. He, at least, has no intention of returning to the soft-skin tribe that captured him. He might miss the abundance of food, but he knows the moment he's injured or replaced, he'll be nothing but dinner.

He doesn't breathe easy until they're well out of range of a metal spitter, but something nags at him the entire time. Soft-skin expressions are largely a mystery to him with their strange, flat faces, their lack of tails or wings or crests, and the bigger one might as well have been asleep for all its face had moved, even in the midst of killing. All the same, there was something about the way it threw itself into the hunt, like a Stripetooth falling on prey and going straight for the neck--

He finds himself wondering if they'd been in any danger after all and wobbles in midair with a shiver. A soft-skin _that_ hungry was probably insatiable.

On the other hand, if they'd just stick to eating their own kind, the world would probably be a better place.


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal wakes as the sky is just gaining color and allows himself a moment to enjoy the unexpected pleasures of the day: the nip of chill in the air, the barely-cushioned earth beneath his back that at least isn't a hard prison bed, the pale vault of the sky arched endlessly overhead.

The heavy head pillowed on his shoulder, and the arm slung with casual arrogance across his chest, unthinkingly possessive or at least certain of its welcome. He hopes for the former, but the latter is equally true.

He turns his head to get a glimpse of his companion's face, but Will is too close. Hannibal's nose brushes Will's hair instead and he presses closer before he can think better of it, inhaling deeply. They each could use a hot bath, but indulging in this once-familiar scent outside the walls of his memory palace is a delight he's gone too long without.

He does have limits, though he doubts Will believes it of him. With a sigh of regret, he begins the cautious process of extricating himself, leaving Will to sleep a little longer. Breakfast won't make itself.

Taking the path down to the beach where their cooking implements wait, Hannibal builds up another small fire with a cautious eye to the smoke plume. The wind blows it back toward the mainland, but the tell-tale column hits the cliff and breaks apart, dissipating before it can draw attention to their camp. By the time Will stirs, Hannibal has had time to search the beach for dodo eggs, which he boils up in their primitive but serviceable cookpot. The dodo who laid them has been plucked and gutted, long strips of breast meat threaded onto makeshift skewers to cook over the fire. He'd prefer red meat to pair with the eggs, but he doesn't care to risk hunting larger prey without observing them first. It's on his list of things to accomplish today, Will and the weather permitting.

He does hope they can find some grains and vegetables soon. A steady diet of meat, eggs and berries is sure to quickly pall.

Will stumbles down to join him not long after, yawning and bleary-eyed but reasonably alert. Like Hannibal, he's chosen to don plain homespun clothing rather than armor, though in Hannibal's case, it has more to do with deferring the choice to Will. One set of their appropriated leathers is currently too stiff with blood to be worn, and if Will would feel more comfortable in the chitinous armor, Hannibal doesn't mind ceding it to him.

"Morning," Will mumbles, scrubbing an absent hand through his hair. "Anything I can do to help?"

"I believe I have this under control," Hannibal says as he removes the cookpot from over the fire. "The meat should be ready by the time these cool enough to eat. Unless you'd care to gather berries to accompany the meal? The yellow ones would be best, I think."

Will chuckles, not unkindly. "You sure you can't think of a single thing worth going back for?"

Crouching down to turn the skewers, Hannibal stills at the question, considering how best to answer it. Will has always had the most curious blind spots where he's concerned, so stubbornly maintained Hannibal can only believe his blindness to be intentional. He's prepared to brush off their current situation as a hardship within their power to remedy in time, but when he glances over, he finds Will watching him with an arched brow, an expression somewhere between resigned and knowing. It's the look Will wears when he wants the truth but doesn't expect to get it.

"When all one has is time," he replies at last, "one can plan a great many feasts. Revisit places of beauty and meaning, indulge every starving sense. But having walked in those places and savored those experiences once, I can relive them just as well here as from a prison cell.

"The two things I craved most, that I could never replicate, for all my skill, I have: my freedom and your company," he explains, though from the slow widening of Will's eyes over the course of his speech, he suspects Will has come to the proper conclusion on his own. "So, no. There's nothing in our former lives I'd care to return to if it meant forfeiting what I have. What I have is enough."

Will stands frozen for a long moment before he softly clears his throat, eyes sliding away but jerking just as swiftly back. "You may end up rethinking that," he warns as he ducks his head, his nervous half-smile nearly an invitation for Hannibal to argue the point. "I mean, you've been in my company before."

"A fact that has sustained me through many long days," Hannibal reassures him. "I have no intention of giving it up again."

Will runs a knuckle up the bridge of his nose as if to push up a vanished pair of glasses, suddenly looking anywhere but at him. "Okay, so I...Jesus. Okay. I'm...going to go get those berries," Will says in a rush, cocking a thumb over his shoulder. Hannibal nods, ruthlessly holding his disappointment in check. He knows better...and yet some idiot hope still takes hold of his heart when Will makes no move to leave. "I know we need to talk, but...can it wait until...?"

He trails off so uncertainly even Hannibal can't guess the direction of his thoughts. Until he's settled the idea in his mind? Found a way to let Hannibal down gently? Until they've secured a toehold in this place strong enough that this long-overdue conversation might not be their last?

"Of course," Hannibal says, to all these possibilities and more. He knows his life is infinitely better with Will in it; the rest is just details.

Will seems more settled by the time he returns with his harvest, and while they conscientiously avoid the topic they've been dancing around for years, breakfast is a comfortable affair. The awkward silences Hannibal had been prepared to fill are instead replaced with the formulation of plans. As expected, Will disapproves of Hannibal's vocally.

"I really don't think we should be splitting up," Will insists. His fierce scowl warms Hannibal, though had it come from anyone else, he would have been insulted.

"I'll travel quicker and more quietly alone," Hannibal points out, keeping his tone neutral to not insult Will in turn. "And I don't intend to engage in any confrontation I can avoid. I merely wish to learn more about our surroundings and its inhabitants."

"You already know what's out there. If it were just humans, I'd be more worried for them, but the humans are just the beginning."

"I've been hunting since I was a boy," Hannibal assures him.

Will's face tightens in unexpected sympathy, taking Hannibal's statement in a way he didn't intend, but which is no less accurate. It only hardens Will's determination. "I don't know if anyone's ever told you this, but the reputation of lawyers is greatly exaggerated. I don't think they stack up against a T-Rex."

"Perhaps not," Hannibal agrees with a smile, "but I should be able to hear the T-Rex coming. Come to think of it, you can usually hear a lawyer coming as well."

Will throws his hands in the air. He looks on the verge of heaving himself up from his seat by the fire and stomping away, but instead he takes a deep, steadying breath. "At least take the armor. And the rifle."

Hannibal considers carefully--he doesn't want Will to think he's being difficult on purpose--but regretfully shakes his head. "I believe stealth will serve me better than strength in this case. Perhaps the crossbow. As a compromise."

"Fine," Will grumbles. "But if you get yourself eaten, I am going to be very disappointed in you." The words are barely out of Will's mouth before his eyes go wide with horrified realization. "Oh, don't you _even_ \--"

"I promise," Hannibal purrs delightedly, "to reserve the pleasure of eating me entirely for you."

The handful of grass Will rips up and throws at him doesn't even reach its mark, but Hannibal makes a show of dusting himself off all the same.

Though hardly bespoke tailoring, the raiders' leathers are a good fit. Certainly a better fit than a prison uniform. Between them they cobble together a strap that lets him sling the crossbow and keep his hands free. Will's glare remains at full strength through their preparations; Hannibal does his best not to seem too pleased.

"Be careful," Will mutters only when Hannibal turns to go.

He'd like to turn back, see for himself what look Will wears when worry overcomes reserve, but instead he nods. "I'll try to return before noon."

"Do better than try."

Unseen by Will, Hannibal allows himself a tiny smile. "As you wish."

Between the beach and the forest lies a stretch of scrubby palm trees, their narrow trunks providing no cover behind which anything could hide. While the fact might work against him now, he notes it down as a point in favor of remaining where they are; they'll see danger approaching long before it reaches them.

The beach on this side of the river seems emptier than the other, though far from quiet. A small herd of duck-billed creatures drink from the pond near the edge of the trees, their heads constantly lifting to look for danger, wary as deer. Two bipedal lizards, each the size of a large goat, chase after a squawking dodo; the webbed ruffs that frame their heads flare out like fans as they spit some dark substance that fells the bird in its tracks. He steers well clear of those, committing their hunting calls to memory.

One of the long-legged riding beasts he'd seen two days previous makes its way down the beach with swinging strides, the gentle curve of its neck straightening sharply when it catches sight of him. He waits to see whether it will run or attack, but other than swiveling its head to keep him in sight, eyes wide and fearless, it passes him by without stopping. It may simply not be hungry, but he finds it curious how many creatures prefer to ignore the humans in their midst when most wild animals would flee.

Now that his wounds have healed--a feat he wants very much to study if the opportunity presents itself--he's less hesitant about taking to the trees. The thick undergrowth and close-set trunks limit the size of the predators that can approach him unawares, and the cover it presents is worth the risk. The humans they'd seen the night before had emerged from these trees and might have a settlement here. He wants to know where, how many there are, and whether they're as brutish as the raiders who beat them to the supply drop.

He stills completely at the first echo of voices, but they appear to be stationary. Wary of sentries, he ghosts his way along a shelf of rock overlooking a low rise, but instead of guards, he finds a lone pair standing over the body of one of the duck-billed creatures. Its hind legs are snared by a primitive bola, but just when he's mentally congratulating the pair for their ingenuity in trapping game, the creature gives a loud, sighing snore that ruffles the half-dry mulch beneath its cheek.

"That's a waste of narcotics," the female of the pair grumbles, shaking her head. "A parasaur's not going to do shit if the Red Hand come back. Couldn't you at least have found a raptor?"

"Finding a raptor isn't a problem," her compatriot says without heat. He looks to be a decade older, swarthy to her fair; both are fit, neither too old nor too young. "Taking down a raptor solo; that's a problem."

"I gave you tranq arrows."

"And I appreciate it," the man assures her with a grin. "But we both know I'm a lousy shot. At least with a parasaur, you can walk right up and bola it down without it trying to take a chunk out of you. Even I can hit the broadside of a dinosaur if it's not going anywhere."

The woman blows the ragged ends of her hair out of her face with a mulish scowl. "Fine. But when your cannon fodder becomes some carno's lunch, don't come crying to me."

"Wouldn't dream of it. Care to help me strip these bushes? Since you're here and all."

Hannibal watches as they diligently pick clean the undergrowth nearby, piling the berries they find by the sleeping dinosaur's head, sorted by color. If he's interpreting what he heard correctly, the beast has been tranquilized, presumably to be tamed. From his implant he knows the black berries they've found have narcotic properties; combined with rotten meat, the effect is even stronger. If he were to coat a weapon with the substance--an arrow, for instance--presumably he could bring down such a creature in much the same way.

The questions remains: how does one go about taming a dinosaur once it's captured?

Groggily the beast lifts its head. The man turns immediately from the bush he's harvesting to drop to his knees at the creature' side, holding its head up enough to offer it a handful of the purple berries Hannibal and Will have so far steered clear of.

"There you are, come on now...there's a good boy," he soothes as the dinosaur lips the berries weakly from his hand. Before it can panic or start to flail, the man tips a measure of liquid down its throat, stroking its neck to encourage it to swallow. Half-dazed, the thing blinks, blinks again, and then its heavy eyelids droop once more, tension sagging out of it. "That's right. Ben's not going to hurt you, see?" At the woman's harsh snort, he adds, "And he's not going to let mean old Kate hurt you, either."

"Mean old Kate wishes she'd brought her damn raptor," the woman grumbles. "Next time you decide to just vanish without telling anyone--"

The sound of something heavy moving quickly through the underbrush silences her scolding before it's well begun, but the pair's faces as they turn toward the sound show more worry than real alarm. The cadence must be familiar, or the rumbling snorts that accompany it. When a saddled parasaur a few shades darker than the pale green one they brought down plows its way up the hill to meet them, they stand their ground.

"Guys, you need to get back to--oh, damn." The rider, a fresh-faced young man barely in his twenties, cuts himself off as he reins his mount in, staring apprehensively at the beast stretched out at their feet. "Uh...how attached to that thing are you?"

"Little over halfway," Ben replies, which has Kate barking a laugh. "Why? What's going on?"

"There's a hunting party coming this way. Might be Red Hand--I didn't stick around long enough to look--but they're chasing something big. Allosaurus, maybe. Meg's going to want everybody up on the heights or up in the air, just in case they try to drive it into the valley."

"Damn it," Ben mutters, stroking the parasaur's neck with a regretful pat.

"There's always next time," Kate consoles, "if a dilo doesn't get it first."

Ben sighs. "Well, there's something to look forward to. All right," he says, climbing reluctantly to his feet, "go on ahead and let them know we're coming."

"On it," the rider says, wheeling his mount around and sending it loping back down the hill.

"And just when I thought this day couldn't get any worse," Ben mumbles under his breath.

For the first time, Kate looks genuinely sympathetic. "Hey," she says, nudging Ben's arm with her elbow as they start down the hill. "Don't give up just yet. You'll see...."

What exactly Kate's companion is supposed to see is lost as they break into a jog, abandoning the half-tamed parasaur in favor of defending their home valley. Briefly Hannibal considers finishing the job--both berries and beast are right there--but now that he has some idea of the process, he knows he can acquire mounts for them at any time.

He also knows Will isn't going to like how it's done.

Staring after the vanished three, he nearly follows to track them home, but curiosity gets the better of him. If this 'Red Hand' is the group the raiders from last night belong to, then getting some idea of their numbers and capabilities before they become a problem would be wise.

Making his cautious way down off his rocky perch, he circles around at a sharp angle to the direction he's been traveling, eyes constantly roving in search of high ground and a place of concealment. He has no intention of becoming a casualty of this hunt, though if the opportunity presents itself....

He hears the crack of rifle fire and the enraged roar of something massive long before he finds the hunting party. The urgent shouts from the humans suggest all is not going to plan, and likely Hannibal should take that as a cue to keep his distance as well. He's just never been any good at leaving interesting things in peace.

The wide space under the trees where the hunt will end is less a clearing and more a makeshift arena where saplings have burst apart under heavy blows. There are five men left of however many started: certainly more than five, as he can see the broken bodies of at least two where they've been tossed aside or trampled underfoot. He sees also what inspired their _nom de guerre_ ; each of them wears a painted imprint of a hand across a shoulder or a chest, a mark missing from his own appropriated leathers but present on the armor he'd left behind.

One man is still astride what Hannibal takes to be a raptor, thanks to Kate's grumbling and the all-pervasive influence of Hollywood; another whistles frantically, but whatever he expects to heed his call must be too far away. The others, grimly silent, have spread out as best they're able, waiting for an opening that doesn't seem likely to come.

The beast they're attempting to bring down dwarfs them; they barely stand as tall as the creature's knees. Big as it is, its camouflage is perfect: back plates a deep, piney green, hide a pale sage that lightens to cream on its belly. Its arms are longer than he'd expect from a Tyrannosaurus, and the bony ridges that come to points over its eyes are unfamiliar as well. Perhaps it is an Allosaurus; he never went through a 'dinosaur phase' as many of his patients have assured him is normal. Whatever its breed, he can't help but admire the sharpness of its teeth, the fierceness with which it lunges after its tormenters.

When it charges its still-mounted attacker, mouth gaping wide, the raptor balks and tries to backpedal, its shriek and its rider's scream cut off simultaneously as jaws clamp down savagely from above. The beast shakes its head like a terrier with a rat; blood paints the air as man and raptor are flung aside, heads mostly separated from their bodies.

"Jesus _fuck_!" the whistler yelps, voice shrill with panic. "It's not even a fucking alpha, what the hell?"

"Get back to the raptors!" a third man yells, holding a simple wooden bow up before him more like a talisman than a weapon.

"Fuck that, I've nearly got this thing down!" snaps a scarred, older man with a rifle. Another loud crack splits the air, but instead of blood, the feathery red tuft of a tranquilizer dart blossoms vividly against the creature's green hide.

The beast stumbles on its feet, ducking its head and trying to scrabble at its face with no success. Its reddish-orange eyes narrow and then close in two slow blinks.

"Fucking got you," the man with the rifle gloats.

Just as the creature begins to tip forward, its eyes snap open with a snarl. Three fast, staggering steps, and its jaws close around the gunman's shoulder and ribs, nearly meeting in the middle as it pitches face-first to the ground, head rolling up on its agile neck.

"Holy shit," someone breathes into the silence that follows, broken only by the wet, choking rattle of the bitten man's last breaths. "How the hell did that thing take out so many of us? It doesn't even have a pack."

"Who fucking cares? I say we kill it before it wakes up," growls the man who'd suggested a retreat, stalking up to the sleeping beast and kicking it hard in the chest.

"Are you serious?" his compatriot demands, yanking him away before he can kick their prize again. The voice of reason is the youngest of the three, a hard-faced boy barely in his twenties who's been quiet until now. The man he's caught tugs gingerly against the hand wrapped around his arm, as if afraid to struggle in earnest. "If we go back, just the three of us, with nothing to show for it, Russo's gonna have our heads."

"But--"

"No. No buts. Shut the fuck up. You want to bitch, go bitch to the raptors. And bring them back here while you're at it," he's told, released and simultaneously pushed away. "We need that meat. Let's just hope they're carrying enough, or _you_ get to take them hunting for more."

The bowman jerks his chin up and stands his ground, rubbing pointedly at his arm. "You're seriously going to tame this thing after it killed--"

"I like living more than I like any of you, so yes." The pair's eyes meet and lock; the older man makes a show of turning his head aside to spit, but he doesn't glance up again from the ground. "Get the raptors. And don't drag your feet this time."

As the bowman stomps off into the trees, the one who'd wisely held his tongue during the argument finally clears his throat. "Eh, c'mon, Dylan. Go easy on the man. Him and McKnight were best mates." The apologist jerks his chin at the last man to fall, whose wet, rasping breaths have since gone silent.

The boy snorts. "If it weren't for McKnight, that asshole'd be dead ten times over. Probably will be anyway, soon enough; no one else is going to put up with his bullshit."

"Harsh."

"Accurate. Now, c'mon and give me a hand."

The older man rocks back on his heels, brows creased. "With what?"

"What do you think?" the boy snaps, flicking a hand at the fallen dinosaur. "Russo might not let me keep it, but I want first feeding on this thing, just in case it remembers later. Up to you whether I cram it down its throat past McKnight or not."

"Jesus."

Hannibal waits until the two are busy prying their comrade free of the creature's jaws before slipping up silently behind them. He sees to the younger man first: one fast stroke across the throat with his makeshift knife. It's almost a pity; the boy seems singularly suited for survival in this place, and yet his viciousness is as shallow as it is sharp. Hannibal has seen scores just like him; the capacity for violence in such a man holds no mystery for him.

Crouched over the recovered body, the other man doesn't notice the danger at first, too distracted with straightening their fallen comrade's limbs into an attitude of repose. As the boy's feet kick and scrabble at the grass, he turns with a reproving scowl only to flinch back when a stray arc of blood hits him full in the face. Shock holds him frozen for a few seconds only, but it's more time than Hannibal needs.

It's not elegantly done, not by anyone's standards, but he still has work to do.

Wherever these men left their mounts, the beasts aren't close enough to come to the aid of the last, who dies breathless, throat crushed, fingers shoved deep into his own mouth in an aborted attempt to whistle.

***

Hunger wakes slowly, too slow to be natural. His ungainly sprawl makes his gut clench, keeps his eyes shut tight as he cautiously sniffs the air. He smells soft-skins and blood, a dead Ripper and smoke, and his limping memory can only supply reasons for three of these things.

When he slits open an eye, he closes it again and dismisses what he sees as some odd venom dream. Unsettlingly, he can still smell the smoke of a soft-skin's tame fire, so he peels his eyes open again for a longer look.

There were three soft-skins still on their feet when Hunger fell to a metal spitter, but now there's only one, and it isn't one Hunger recognizes. It must have built the fire. It must also have killed the others, because it's skinned off their coverings and slit them open, red to the elbows in their blood. It croons softly to itself as it works, slicing away long strips of muscle that it stacks on a broad, green leaf.

The soft-skin's fire smells of roasting meat, but the Ripper carcass, when he checks, remains untouched.

He's certain he made no sound, gave not a twitch, but the soft-skin turns to look as if it felt his notice, its flat mouth curling up at the edges without baring its teeth.

Rising from its crouch, it picks up its leaf full of meat and approaches without fear, making slow, quiet noises to match its slow, steady steps. He could lift his head right now and take the creature's legs off at the knees, but he's disoriented enough that he just might miss, and...well. He's curious.

One tiny paw flattens itself to his nose, warm and slightly tacky against his hide. The soft-skin lifts a piece of meat-- _soft-skin_ meat--and dangles it perilously close to his teeth. When he cautiously picks his chin up and gapes his jaws, the meat is placed neatly on his tongue. It's _delicious_.

The soft-skin makes more quiet noises at him as it strokes his nose, eyes narrowing like a pleased Stripetooth.

He suspects he's found the soft-skin Ravener he's been looking for.

Making up his mind all at once, he drops his head back to the ground and lets himself be fed to bursting, long after the venom in the others' metal spitters has worn off. He thinks it knows; after a while its movements become looser, a coiled readiness he hadn't noticed before leaving its tiny frame. It reminds him of the careful game he plays with the Gianttooth that lives on the slopes of the cloud-rock mountain. Big as it is--as much larger than him as he is when compared to a soft-skin--it could kill him without much effort, but sometimes he drives the soft-skins that come hunting the cloud-rocks into its jaws. That's won him a measure of tolerance over the years, even protection; this isn't the first time the soft-skins have tried to capture or kill him.

He still misses his pack.

When he can't even pretend to take another bite, he gathers himself and rolls cautiously to his feet, wary of a trick. Tiny as they are, soft-skins are capable of things no one can explain: setting things on fire with their paws and making things break into pieces at a distance, spitting death and venom from strange branches of metal and bent wood. He half expects a trap, but the soft-skin just stares up at him uncowed, making the same soft noises as before.

Soft-skins are clever...clever and dangerous. And this one barely seems to realize it's a soft-skin at all. With a soft-skin of his own, he'd have all that deadly cleverness on _his_ side. And if he's wrong about the creature, he can always eat it later.

He watches intently as things are gathered up and put into a pouch-covering, as a flat rock is pushed carefully away from the fire and dirt is kicked over the coals. The fire-licked meat he's been smelling is nearly ruined on the outside, the still-juicy center surrounded by a rind of flesh seared pale, but that doesn't deter his soft-skin. It eats neatly, even daintily, savoring each bite with fastidious pleasure.

Despite his name, Hunger supposes he can't really begrudge his soft-skin the single liver it takes for itself. He can't fault it for its choice of meat, either; compared to soft-skin, Ripper flesh is stringy and tough. He would have left that carcass alone too.

It looks back at him once as it turns to go and makes what he thinks are pleased noises when Hunger follows along. The soft-skin seems to know where it's going, though it keeps casting glances at the branches above. Or, no--at the sun, perhaps, because it shades its eyes with a paw and looks up again as they reach a clearing. Seeing the sun high in the sky above, it makes a short, sharp sound and stretches its little legs in a faster walk.

Even in a hurry, his soft-skin never loses its watchful air, though there's little in this stretch of woods that would care to tangle with a Ravener. Spitters and Egg-Stealers turn tail and flee as they pass, and while his soft-skin watches them go with predatory interest, neither of them are hungry, so neither gives chase. Hunger spares an idle thought to the meat they left behind, no doubt vanished into the bellies of scavengers within moments of their leaving. Is his soft-skin not one to make caches, or does it plan to hunt later for fresher? For _better_?

Small as it is, his soft-skin might never have sunk its teeth into the succulent flesh of a Rammer's stubby arms, the mouthwatering feast of an Earthshaker's tender belly. In the days when he'd had a pack behind him, he'd thought nothing of dining on Bigtooth, once even a Toothfin that had swum too far into the shallows in chase of prey. He'll content himself with smaller prey by necessity, but it's not his preference.

He rumbles softly to himself, picturing his soft-skin's first taste of such prime fare. If it's half the hunter he thinks it is, they are going to eat well.


	4. Chapter 4

Will doesn't stare after Hannibal when he leaves. He's got things to do around camp if he's not going to be invited to play backup, like any _reasonable_ person would want. It's time they start thinking about shelter, if nothing else. They've had good luck with the weather so far, but the first time it rains, they're going to want to be under cover.

The problem with keeping his hands busy is that there's nothing keeping his mind busy. He has nothing to do but think as he takes their hatchet out to collect wood and thatch, and the subject his thoughts gravitate to is entirely predictable.

Will's relationship with Hannibal has gone through so many changes over the years, he sometimes feels like he needs a playbook to keep up. They've been friends, enemies, rivals, temporary allies--there's almost nothing they haven't been to one another at some point. His own sexual history aside--and he's well aware that no one completely straight or completely sane should have been mooning quite so obviously over the sight of his psychiatrist wrist-deep in someone else's innards--adding lovers to the list shouldn't seem like such a large step.

It does, though, because if he takes away his blindness in the beginning, that gut-punch of realization at the end, and the utter rage in the middle, when it comes down to it, Will's fallen for the same trap everyone has, and he knows better. He's pretty sure Hannibal thinks the same about him, but Will doesn't mean only in the sense that the two of them embarking on any kind of relationship together is likely a bloodbath in the making.

He knows Hannibal wants him--there's been no question of that since they dined on Will's second kill together--but he'd assumed at the time that him on his knees was just what winning looked like to Hannibal. Hannibal turning himself in could have been both a parting shot and a mind game that didn't pan out the way Hannibal expected. Trying to eat Will's fucking _brain_ \--

But Hannibal could have knifed him in some back alley, dissected him and left him strung up like a particularly grisly mobile for Jack to find. Instead he'd wanted to keep some part of Will--the best part, if you happened to be a cannibal and also totally ridiculous--with him always. It was a blatant clue Will had refused to see, because he'd allowed himself for years to forget his own profile.

He knows Hannibal's the furthest thing from a textbook psychopath there is, that there's not a damn thing wrong in his head that he didn't put there and cultivate on purpose. Hannibal just decided early on that he'd rather be the hunter than the hunted and molded his entire life to fit that conviction. He isn't a monster incapable of love; the way he loves Will is terrifying and all-consuming. Humbling, even.

Knowing that Hannibal loves him--real, messy, perfectly human love--makes it easier to consider...other things. Because in all honesty, Will is tired. He's tired of pretending he doesn't want certain things, doesn't feel others. He's loved Hannibal since the man had been his only paddle against the tidal pull of his own imagination, had slipped almost unnoticed _into_ love somewhere between being offered a new life and losing everything _but_ his life. What he needs to know now is whether he _wants_ Hannibal, not because it's required of him or owed, not because it would make Hannibal easier to deal with, but because he has the most startling conviction that it could be _good_ between them in ways he's never really thought to consider.

And probably still a bloodbath. But at least he's reasonably sure it won't be either of them spilling their guts out on the kitchen floor this time.

The epiphany he's quietly hoping for doesn't strike out of the blue, and now's really not the time to put his head back, close his eyes, and imagine walking into a shared shower. If they're not careful, they're going to be a dinosaur's dinner by the end of the week, and if Hannibal does turn out to be the exception that proves the rule where Will's orientation is concerned, he wants longer than a week. He's also completely done with feeling guilty about that.

Either way they're going to need a roof over their heads, and he doesn't mind shouldering that task. He's a halfway decent carpenter on his own, no mystery implant required, and while he won't turn down Hannibal's help if it's offered, he just needs...something. A task, a goal--anything that makes him feel like an equal partner, not just Hannibal's hapless sidekick. If that something provides them with a home, all the better.

By the time he's gathered enough materials to make a decent beginning at a shelter, the sun has baked into his shoulders, hovering far too close to noon for his peace of mind. It's not like either of them are wearing a watch, and if Hannibal's in the forest somewhere, he may not realize the time at all. There's absolutely no reason to panic yet. Will still has to stop himself from climbing up to the point again, the better to spot Hannibal's approach when he finally breaks cover.

Thinking to distract himself usefully, he gathers up the bloodstained leathers and strange, chitinous armor they collected the night before and packs it all down to the fish pond, along with his spear and the rifle. He's not holding out much hope of being able to salvage the leathers, but he can at least try. If nothing else, he can catch some fish while he's there, and if there's one thing Will knows how to cook, even over a campfire, it's fish.

He starts with the leathers, but lacking any way of conditioning the hide after, he settles for sluicing off what he can and hoping the leather won't crack or stiffen as it dries. The armor is easier, but as he's scrubbing away the blood, he realizes what he'd taken for an older stain is actually paint: a faded red handprint on the right shoulder. He can't bring himself to feel guilty--if their coming here has removed three killers from the world, he can almost believe the net effect of their presence so far is a positive one--but something about that visible reminder of the previous owner leaves him vaguely unsettled.

He's scouring away the flaking paint with a handful of sand when he realizes he's not alone.

The half-dozen riders who melt out of the trees are a young-looking lot, lean-faced and wiry in a way that speaks more of hard work than short rations. They're split evenly between men and women; the youngest might be in her early twenties, while the oldest man looks somewhere between Will's age and Hannibal's. He's the only one not sitting a raptor, and his duck-billed mount has a cantankerous look in its eyes that likely strikes fear into the hearts of anything slow enough for it to ram with its bony, back-swept crest.

There's not a single gun amongst them, but Will knows better than to discount the four bows and two crossbows aimed in his direction. Slowly raising his hands, he rises to his feet, scanning each of their faces in turn. _Worry. Distrust. Fear_. One of the women glances down at the armor he was scrubbing, and her frown twists into a furious grimace. _Hate_.

"You're a long way from Russo's camp," she taunts, lip curled. All around, hands tighten on weapons.

Will's relief that they at least share a common language evaporates instantly. Even without that barrier, she might as well be speaking in tongues. "Who?"

"Maybe he's deserting," the man on the hadrosaur suggests. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, he has the deeply tanned skin and rugged features of a stock character in an old cowboy movie and the careful diction of an investment banker.

"Maybe he has no idea who you're talking about," Will counters. He's not going to get angry at Hannibal over this situation; the only reason the three raiders hadn't attacked them on sight is because they _couldn't_ see them, a situation that wouldn't have lasted for long. It's just bad luck that they hadn't known enough about the local politics to be more careful with the fallout. There's clearly something about the armor Will was cleaning up that these people recognize, but _deserting_ \--is it the painted mark he'd been trying to remove that's setting them off? "Look, I've only been here two days, and the only people I've met have all been out to kill me. So if that's what this is--"

The blonde woman who'd first mentioned Russo snorts, stilling the uncertain looks being traded at her back. "Beach bait taking out Red Hand? After two days?"

"Well, this _is_ my third," Will says with a tight smile. He's skirting the line of outright antagonization, but he has the feeling encouraging them to dismiss him won't do him any favors.

Blue eyes narrow. "Where's the rest of your tribe?"

"Kate," the not-quite-cowboy chides. The raptors shift uneasily; at first Will thinks it's the sudden tension among their riders--their looks say mom and dad are fighting again--but then he feels the first vibrations in the earth through his thin cloth-and-hide moccasins.

"Shut _up_ , Ben, and don't give me that poor, scared lone survivor crap," Kate snaps. "His tribe's got nothing to worry about if they're on the level, but if they're another bunch of assholes like Russo's gang--"

"I don't have a tribe," Will interjects to get their attention back on him, and _not_ on whatever's approaching through the trees. He knows he's taking a serious risk here, but with any luck those raptors will look far tastier than one stringy human. The instant that new threat breaks cover, he's going to grab the rifle half-hidden in the grass at his feet and bolt.

Kate sneers. "There's no way you're alone."

"I never said I was."

He sees the dark shadow of something huge from the corner of his eye, hears the rippling crack as it pushes its way through the thin saplings at the tree line. A low, rumbling snarl lifts the short hairs on the back of his neck, but three sharp, commanding snaps of a human's fingers has him looking over in surprise, momentarily forgetting to run.

Hannibal has a new rifle slung over one shoulder and an ominously bulging pack, but it's the massive dinosaur frozen on the verge of pouncing that captures Will's attention. He's pretty sure it's an Allosaurus. Jesus fucking Christ.

He took his eyes off Hannibal for _six hours. Six hours_ , and now...this.

"May we help you?" Hannibal asks pleasantly as the riders pull their mounts cautiously back. Somehow Will doesn't imagine primitive arrows doing much against a beast like that.

"Who are you?" Kate demands, ignoring the dinosaur in favor of pointing her crossbow at Hannibal.

"Dr. Hannibal Lecter. And you?" Hannibal's expression remains mild, giving no indication whether he finds Kate's abruptness rude or understandable given the situation. If it's the former, he's certain to remember it for later.

Kate opens her mouth to reply, but Ben knees his mount forward first, easing off on his draw and lowering his bow. "Doctor?" he echoes with naked hope. "You mean like a medical doctor?"

Kate casts him a troubled, sidelong look but says nothing, lips pressing tightly closed.

Hannibal arches a brow. "I was an emergency room surgeon for a number of years. Am I to understand you require a physician?"

" _Yes_. Please," Ben adds hastily. "We've got an injured tribemate--we already tried everything we know, but the usual brews and transfusions aren't helping. If there's anything you can do...."

Hannibal looks to Will first and waits until he receives a nod. It may be just for show, but Will's warmed by it regardless. In the old days, Hannibal would have made the decision unilaterally and let the rest of the world think what it liked. "And what reassurances do we have that we'll be allowed to leave if we follow you?"

"I'd say that's a pretty big reassurance," Kate grumbles with a glance at the Allosaurus. It hasn't relaxed a bit, eyeing them all like a snack it could be persuaded to make room for, even if it's not truly hungry. "And just how long have _you_ been on the Island, Dr. Lecter?"

Will and Hannibal exchange a glance, suddenly beset by new questions. If they're on an island, are they still in the present? Were the dinosaurs somehow engineered? Who brought them here, and why doesn't the rest of the world know about this place?

"I arrived with Will," Hannibal replies with a tiny frown. "Perhaps we could arrange a trade. My services in exchange for information, assistance if you feel it's warranted after you've seen the results."

"You seem very sure of your work," Kate notes. It's not quite a challenge; she's suspicious, but Will gets the feeling she's fishing for reassurance. Her glance at the small party's other spokesman is full of veiled worry. She doesn't want him to get his hopes up only to be disappointed.

"I was a very good surgeon," Hannibal promises, too matter-of-fact to be a boast. "Now. I imagine time is of the essence, so if you could show us to my patient...?"

Kate grimaces. "The Allo too?"

Smiling benignly, Hannibal pats his dino's tree-trunk leg. "We could hardly leave Alkanas behind."

Well. That's that, then. Will's known for years that the only thing stopping Hannibal from having a house full of pets is his busy lifestyle, though the realization of just _how_ busy Hannibal's life has been is slightly newer. The man deserted him once to the company of a murder suspect to go pet a _sheep_ , for Christ's sake. If he's named the Allosaurus, then resistance is useless. That's a sacred bond, one Will doesn't intend to protest.

It's not lost on him in the slightest that the sudden presence of over two tons of carnivore has gone a long way towards keeping things civil.

***

Curious as he is to learn what sort of wound the miraculous blood packs can't heal, Hannibal refuses to speed his steps faster than a brisk walking pace. They may have agreed to accompany these people, but Hannibal will not be _herded_. The fact that this little party have no spare mounts with them suggests neither prisoners nor politeness were a consideration when they left camp, though to be fair, what he heard earlier suggests they rode out to meet the enemy.

Will casts him a sidelong look, one that flits from rider to rider before returning to Hannibal, a question stark in his eyes. It's debatable whether Will is concerned for their own odds or for the lives of their erstwhile companions, but Hannibal hadn't remained at liberty for as long as he did without learning how to charm his way into others' good graces. He blames their recent injuries and preoccupation with their immediate survival for the fact that neither he nor Will considered just how useful a bargaining chip his medical skills would prove in such a place.

"Pardon me," he says before they've gone very far, "but I believe you said we're on an island, Miss...?"

"Kate," supplies her fellow spokesman with a grin, "but you can drop the 'miss.' She's no lady." Kate snorts but doesn't argue; if anything, she looks pleased. "Sorry; kind of forgot the introductions. I'm Ben, by the way, and that's Nikolai, Patrice, Stella, and Kent."

Nods and polite waves follow each name, lackluster greetings in keeping with the uncertainty of their alliance. "Pleased to meet you," Hannibal replies politely. "Myself you know; my companion is Special Agent Will Graham."

"Retired," Will adds swiftly but doesn't otherwise correct him.

"Huh," Kate says, some of the suspicion fading from her tone. "Guess that explains how you've done so well for yourself with just two days on the Island. Sorry, _three_."

"Then it is an island," Hannibal says as Will's eyes narrow, defusing the minor squabble he can see building. "Does that mean we're still in the present?" As far-fetched as it would seem, genetic engineering seems far more likely than time travel or alien intervention.

Ben shrugs. "I suppose that depends on what you consider the present, but if you're from anytime earlier than...what was the last record?"

"2103," Nikolai offers from the back in an accent thicker than Hannibal's own.

"Right, and even that guy didn't have a clue what was going on. Pretty sure we're not even on Earth anymore, though we could be close to it," Ben says, tilting his head uncertainly to the side. "The constellations, you know. Some of them are basically the same, and some have gone a bit off, so...who knows? Could be our position. Could be time shift. No answers for you there, I'm afraid."

Hannibal digests this with a frown. A glance at Will finds nothing but grim awareness and a deep lack of surprise. Of course a man who'd crossed an ocean to find him would have looked at once to the stars. He almost asks why Will didn't mention that fact earlier, but he suspects a fundamental lack of trust in Will's own faculties is to blame. That he'll forever share a measure of that blame is a regret he's only beginning to plumb the depths of.

"So, if we're on an island," Will jumps in while Hannibal's distracted, "what's the mainland like?"

"Who knows?" Kate grumbles, mouth twisting unhappily. "It's a long damn swim--too long a flight, unless you can catch one of those bloody seagulls. No one from our tribe's made it out that far, but the people who have say we're ringed all around by some kind of force field. No getting in and no getting out."

"Except you clearly can get in," Will says, "or none of us would be here. How _did_ we get here, anyway? I thought at first we must've washed up on the beach, but--"

Ben starts to nod before Will even finishes his thought. "Everyone we know of woke up the same way: laid out on the sand, even if the last thing they remember is being landlocked. Don't know as anyone's ever seen it happen...one day there's an empty beach, and the next there's a few new survivors."

"Optimistic, calling them that," Kate scoffs.

"I like to look on the bright side."

Kate snorts. Her raptor cocks its head back, vivid orange eyes landing briefly on Hannibal before flicking up to Alkanas with a measuring stare. The long stripe of feathers running down its spine fluff and then settle with a shiver.

Alkanas rumbles quietly as the raptor looks away. Hannibal wonders if it's his imagination that the beast sounds smug.

"And has anyone learned the reason we've been brought here?" Hannibal asks. He has suspicions, ideas, but it's difficult to tell which ones he should dismiss as mere fancy when they've been abandoned to such fanciful circumstances.

Ben hunches a shoulder, casting a doubtful look up at the heavens. "Nope. Whoever's upstairs, they don't communicate with the likes of us. No instructions, no commands from on high. No explanations. Though you can get their attention, if you can call it that."

Hannibal arches a brow. "How?"

"Live," Kate says flatly, glaring straight ahead. "And keep on living. Find something you're good at and get better at it. This place keeps track of us somehow; probably through these things on our wrists. You've seen the beacon lights?"

"The supply drops?" Hannibal asks, trading a glance with Will.

Kate nods, suspicious again. Clearly she hadn't expected them to have worked out the purpose for the things so quickly. "They don't open for just anyone. The more this place _approves_ of you," she grinds out with a curled lip, "the better the supplies it lets you have access to."

"And there's a lot of competition for those supplies, believe me," Ben adds, shaking his head. "I've seen men get killed over blueprints they can't even use. You want to stay safe, steer clear of the beacons unless you're ready for a fight."

Will huffs. "Too late," he says ruefully. "That's how we tangled with this Russo character's gang. We thought we were under attack _before_ they came along; the thing just appeared out of nowhere."

One of the women--Stella--hoots in friendly laughter, then immediately ducks her head, ears pinking. "Yeah, that happened to me too," she admits. It takes no practiced ear to hear Chicago in every word. "Scared the bejeesus out of me; I thought for sure it'd be aliens."

Hannibal nods in commiseration, but he's distracted by a name he's heard before, recently. "Russo?"

Ben and Kate glance at each other, the latter grudgingly waving at Ben to continue, relaxing at last.

"Leader of the Red Hand, the biggest tribe on the Island--and the worst," Ben explains. "When I said there were no instructions, I meant it: no rules to follow, no laws to break. It's all very Wild West, and Russo's taken that to extremes. You either join his tribe, or you're fair game, and most of that mob would as soon kill you as look at you. Between the raids and clashing over the beacons, we've lost more people...."

"Is that how my patient came to be injured?" A glance at Will finds him wary but willing. "We witnessed the altercation last night," Hannibal admits. "We weren't certain how it ended."

Ben is silent a moment. "You're out at the point, then?" he asks reluctantly. Hannibal has the feeling he would rather not know, not yet. Kate, by contrast, fixes Hannibal with a look of fierce interest.

"Will that be a problem?"

"Doesn't have to be," Ben says with a shrug. There's no threat in his tone, only simple pragmatism. "You'll be making a target of yourself if you stay there, and it's not like you'll be able to do anything with the beacons, at least at first, but we can work something out if you decide to stay on. It's a decent spot," he allows, "easy to defend, unless they come at you from the air--and there's ways around that too. Tell you what," he suggests. "Let us at the beacon until you can open it yourself, and you're welcome to anything you can use--which won't be all of it by a long shot."

"And once we can open it?" Will asks, matching Ben's practical tone.

"Just keep us first in mind when you're ready to trade, and we'll call it even."

"A generous offer," Hannibal muses, watching Kate's reaction more than Ben's. He's not surprised to find she agrees with his assessment; he's more surprised to find that, simultaneously, she doesn't.

Ben makes a face. "It's _really_ not. You're mostly going to get blue drops out there, but you know what you're going to get out of the blue ones? A lot of saddles, for dinos you may not want or need--or be able to catch," he adds with a grin at Kate, who rolls her eyes at him. "Lots of blueprints, mostly for metal buildings, which aren't going to do you much good without access to a whole lot of metal to build them out of. Blueprints for crop plots. _So_ many crop plots," he groans feelingly. "Fighting over it is ridiculous."

"Ben's a socialist," Kate says in fond disgust.

"No, I'm a man who just really wants to survive. And maybe, if we weren't so busy killing each other over--let me guess, a water jar?" he adds with an expectant look at Hannibal.

"Crossbow," Hannibal replies.

"Fine, over a crossbow, _maybe_ we'd have time to think about ways to get back home. Or at the very least, with a bit more free time, maybe I could keep up with you people's insatiable need for beer."

"Beer's good for the soul," Stella argues, looking to the lanky woman riding close beside her for support.

"The way Ben brews it, my soul feels very blessed," Patrice agrees with a grin, sharp and sly. They're a strikingly mismatched pair: Stella, shy of attracting notice, with her restless fingers curling the ends of her mousy hair under, and Patrice who lounges like a lioness in the saddle, confident in herself despite--or perhaps because of--the faded claw-marks scored across her dark cheek.

To Hannibal's surprise, Will clears his throat, rubbing absently at the fresh scar on his shoulder. "Honestly? After the last couple of days, beer is very relevant to my interests."

Ben sighs. "You see what I have to put up with?" he asks Hannibal, hangdog.

Hannibal allows himself a smile. "Indeed."

The path they're led down is wide enough for even Alkanas to navigate without breaking any branches, but it was cleared cunningly enough that he would never have guessed its presence from the tree line. Even as they approach a tall gate of stone and reinforced wood, the rocks to either side look like nothing much, just a minor quirk of the landscape that might hide a small clearing.

He isn't expecting to be led past owl-eyed guards into a wide, sheltered hollow that must house at least thirty, ringed about with huge shelves of rock that form a natural barrier. There's a shallow pond in the center feeding water to neatly sectioned-off crops, pens for more dinosaurs than he has names for and a surprising collection of creatures he does recognize: the dodos, two stocky horses with stiff manes and stripes reminiscent of zebras, a small herd of sheep with spiky horns.

There are plenty of raptors, two triceratops and an impressive stegosaurus, mostly arrayed on the heights ringing the valley, but no carnivores as large as his own. He takes that as an encouraging sign. Though he thinks it unlikely that they'll need to fight their way out of this encampment, inspiring a healthy respect in the inhabitants couldn't go amiss.

"Holy shit," breathes a man sitting not far from the gate, a pile of flint he's painstakingly turning into arrowheads lumped at his feet--or rather, foot. The other is propped up on a second wooden chair, leg stretched carefully straight and wrapped in a crude splint. He stares open-mouthed at Alkanas and turns helplessly to Ben, who grins.

"Meet your avengers, Jake," he says, tipping his head towards Hannibal and Will. "Dr. Lecter, Agent Graham--Jake Harris, one of our best scouts. Ignore the fact that you saw him get knocked out of the saddle last night."

"Wait, are you serious? You took out those assholes on the pteras?" A hesitant grin spreads slowly across Jake's face as Hannibal inclines his head in acknowledgement.

"After witnessing their treatment of strangers, we thought it wise not to offer them the opportunity a second time."

Jake laughs. "Well then, I owe you fellas a drink. But, uh...you wouldn't happen to be the hunting party everybody's looking for, would you? 'Cause from what Noah said, I woulda thought there'd be a lot more of you."

"Damn," Ben sighs, eyes flicking to the collection of small cabins huddled along the rock walls. "We should probably get back out there...."

"A hunting party," Hannibal echoes thoughtfully. Beside him Will goes very still. "At least five men? Likely more?"

Ben frowns, sitting back a little in the saddle. "Yeah, one of our people spotted a group out here on, ah...the hunt for something...large?" His eyes tip up to Alkanas then jerk back down, rounded with surprise. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me...."

"My friend here saw to most of them before the tranquilizers took," Hannibal explains modestly, patting Alkanas' leg again. The creature tips his head with a soft rumble to peer at him but doesn't shift away. Hannibal leaves his hand where it is. "The two who remained were rather distracted; I don't believe they noticed my presence at all." Surely two against one isn't outside the realm of possibility. He was a surgeon; it should be obvious his knowledge of anatomy would have uses outside the operating theater as well as within.

Kate starts to whistle but turns it into a gusty sigh as dinosaur heads perk up all over camp. "You took _that_ out from under the Red Hand? Russo's going to kill you if he finds out," she adds, an admiring grin stretching wide across her face. "You're going to do just fine here, Doc."

Will casts him a look of resigned amusement but swallows back whatever he might have said were they alone. They're taking a risk, Hannibal knows, playing the part of two innocent castaways when someone from their past, present, or even future might remember their names. Still, he would rather take his chances with a civilized group than test Russo's leniency towards a pair of fellow killers. Much like the vicious boy he put down earlier, the antics of a pack of thugs interest him not in the slightest.

Amidst the others' relieved laughter, Jake starts, sitting up straight. "Oh, right--you're a doctor?"

"A surgeon, yes. Are you the patient I've been asked to see?" He very much doubts it; despite the broken leg, the man seems otherwise hale.

"Nah, I'm fine," Jake says dismissively, slapping the side of his thigh. "Another hour or so, and I'll be back on my feet. But if there's anything you can do to help the kid--"

Will shifts unhappily on his left, but before either of them can determine whether the moniker is affectionate or descriptive, a pointed cough turns Jake's hopeful expression sheepish.

The woman standing a few meters up the path is perhaps in her forties, with deeply-tanned skin and a tangle of black curls chopped ruthlessly short. A ragged scar starts at the left corner of her mouth and continues nearly to her ear, singular and straight. It pulls her face into a mild snarl, not entirely at odds with the cool watchfulness in her eyes as she looks them over. Hannibal makes no secret of staring back, taking in the sword at her hip, the eclectic mix of leather and chitin armor she wears, and the rifle slung over one shoulder. It may only be the confidence of a tested fighter, but the authority in her stance suggests they're meeting the tribe's leader.

"Well, now. When I heard trouble was coming our way, I didn't think we'd be letting more in through the gate."

Hannibal arches a brow. The woman's wry drawl, distinctly Australian, is more cautious than unfriendly, but hardly welcoming.

"Uh...actually, this _is_ the trouble we're looking for," Ben offers with an easy shrug. "Or what's left of it. Apparently Russo's boys ran into the good doctor and his friend here--the big one," he corrects himself with an apologetic smile at Will. "No survivors, at least that they know of."

"It'll be easy enough to see whether their story checks out," Kate says practically. He's not offended by her suspicion; in her place, with a home and family to defend, he'd be just as mistrustful. At the other woman's sharp nod, Kate glances once at Ben then turns to the others.

"C'mon, Nicolai. Time to show off what Jake's taught you."

"I could hunt before," Nicolai points out without heat, wheeling his mount and nudging it ahead of the others. Ben watches them go without moving.

"Yeah, but now you're good at it!" Jake calls after them, grinning wide and unrepentant.

Hannibal ignores their antics in favor of returning the weighing stare aimed his way. "Doctor," the woman echoes Ben expectantly.

"Hannibal Lecter," he says, inclining his head a fraction, "formerly a surgeon at Johns Hopkins University. My companion is Special Agent Will Graham of the FBI--retired," he adds with a sidelong smile before Will can correct him again. "And I believe Alkanas' reputation precedes him."

"Meg Fowler," she introduces herself with a thoughtful glance at Alkanas. "Former park ranger, current people wrangler. I suppose Ben's told you someone with your skills would be a godsend right about now."

"Only in the broadest terms," Hannibal assures her. "I offered to examine your tribemate in exchange for information, perhaps assistance, but...you understand much will depend on the nature of the ailment and what tools I have at my disposal." He won't promise a miracle, though he's confident his skills are still sharp enough to serve.

Meg nods, unsurprised. "Don't worry about the stone knives and bearskins; our smith's been doing his best to forge anything any of us can remember from our misspent hours in front of the idiot box. Problem is, not a one of us here's qualified to use them."

"It sounds like a diagnosis has already been made," Hannibal notes, curious.

"I'll let you decide for yourself," Meg says, hand tightening on the strap of her rifle. Her expression is grim. "Sooner the better. We've been putting it off because no one wanted to go in on good faith and a prayer, but...well, come on. I'll show you."

As she leads them over to the grouping of modest wood and thatch cabins nestled against the rock walls, Meg gives a piercing whistle that has the humans on the heights peering down to shout questions while the dinosaurs shake themselves off, dropping out of their ready stances to graze or preen. "Low alert, people!" Meg calls back, the nearer tribesfolk passing the word to the others. "Watch for Kate. If she comes back hot, you know what to do."

Interesting. So Kate would be one of the ones to incapacitate first if he were of a mind to. He's not worried about what Kate will find, or the veiled threat to their lives. He left little enough evidence behind, assuming any of it escaped the hungry mouths of scavengers.

Though he has no way yet of communicating his wishes to the odd duckling that seems to have imprinted on him, Alkanas is a bright creature. When they reach a small cottage with smoke rising from the chimney, a fire crackling inside even in the noonday heat, Alkanas leans down to sniff once at the open doorway and turns away with a snort, bored. He pays no attention to the much smaller dinosaur that hisses at him from inside: one of the colorful lizards that devoured Hannibal's first kill.

Meg clicks her tongue as she steps inside, scolding, "Iphigenia. Be good."

A startled laugh escapes Will as he ducks in after Hannibal and makes way for Ben to follow. "Iphigenia?"

"She's a princess," Meg grumbles, rolling her eyes at the trill that sings out from the bed. "And she knows that word."

Orange and gold, the tiny creature is a lone spot of color curled beside a boy whose face nearly matches the coarse pillow his pet rests on, tucked between his shoulder and his cheek. Seventeen on a guess, eighteen on a stretch, the boy is soaked in sweat, hair matted slickly to his brow. As Hannibal watches, the boy's hands fly towards his middle then freeze as he tries weakly to arch his back, squirm away from the pain. His pet croons back at his hoarse groan, but it's doubtful he registers anyone's presence at all.

"Meet Theo Merriweather," Meg says quietly, "camp mascot and resident genius, for all that he's from _much_ earlier in the timeline than you'd expect. He had some notion of rowing out to that islet just off the coast, in a metal-sided boat to keep the sharks from nipping at his toes. Barely made it past the river mouth before one of those whale-fish things smashed his boat to smithereens. Luckily the dolphins here are the same as everywhere; they kept the sharks off him and dragged him close enough to shore for us to reach him."

Meg shakes her head, folding her arms as she leans back against the rough-planked wall. "He seemed fine at first. Banged up, but no worse than you'd expect. We gave him the usual medical brews, then transfusions when the pain got worse, but that's the trouble with those things. They'll put you back together, but they won't take anything out."

Will shifts, casting a troubled look at Hannibal's side where the Dragon's bullet tore into him. "So...if you had an open wound...."

"Drink enough medical brews, and it'll close on its own," Meg explains. "The results may not be pretty, but it'll close. Break a bone? They'll mend it. Too bad if your marrow ends up floating around in your blood, though; they won't do a thing about that. Same if you're poisoned. It'll keep you alive until the effects wear off... _if_ you're strong enough. Until you run out of potions, that is. Or strength."

"The kid's plenty strong," Ben mutters, nearly holding his own breath as he watches the boy struggle to draw his next.

Meg sighs. "It's not your fault, Ben."

"I know that," Ben grumbles. "I warned him off that place, didn't I? Still helped him build the damn boat."

Hannibal can place the man's expression now. It's the same thwarted paternalism Will had displayed while berating himself over his choice of Christmas present for Abigail. If Will's sympathetic grimace means anything, perhaps Will sees himself in Ben too.

"May I?" Hannibal asks the room at large, gesturing towards the bed. He can smell the problem from where he stands--sickness and infection and the sour scent of abdominal fluids--but it never hurts to be thorough.

"Be our guest," Meg invites, standing away from the wall as Hannibal approaches his patient.

"Pardon me," Hannibal says politely to the little creature standing guard as he reaches to pull back the blankets. The creature clicks her tongue in agitation but settles at a sharp whistle from Meg. "Thank you," Hannibal says, keeping his movements slow. It might be wiser to ask for the creature to be removed, but letting her remain will go a long way toward proving both his intentions and his skill. "You're a lovely little thing. What are you, I wonder?" he murmurs, holding the creature's eyes as he takes the boy's pulse, finding it weak and fluttery.

"Ah...that's a compy," Ben says gruffly. "On their own, they think humans are the best thing since sliced bread. Wild, though, and in a pack, they just want to see you _between_ two slices of bread. They're not all that smart, especially compared to some, but they're good company."

"Compared to which?" Will asks, taking up the thread of the conversation as if he can sense Hannibal's next question. Perhaps their curiosity is merely in tune. "I mean...I always assumed dinosaurs would behave like lizards, but...."

"Lots of things on the island seem to have been engineered a certain way," Ben explains, cringing in sympathy when Hannibal begins to press along the boy's abdomen, finding it tight and bloated. Laying his palm flat, he presses down slowly, then with greater firmness. "The dinosaurs are definitely one of those--Jesus," he hisses as Hannibal lifts his hand suddenly. It's not until the pressure is relieved that the boy reacts with a pained whimper.

"Peritonitis," Hannibal announces, turning to face the others. Will's face is pale, but there's still trust in his eyes despite the warning look he levels on Hannibal. "With a very high chance of infection, I'm afraid. You say any wound he might have taken would already have healed?"

"Within the first few hours," Meg says, briefly closing her eyes. "Wounds aren't the problem. It's what comes out of them that can kill you."

So. This is a problem she's seen before, and clearly she has some hope that opening the boy up and draining the infection will help, or their smith wouldn't have been attempting to recreate surgical tools. It isn't that simple; to give the boy the best chance of survival, Hannibal would need access to antibiotics, a sterile solution to flush the toxins out, when he lacks even the means to cleanse the incision site beyond boiled water and the same soap his implant suggested he use to strip dye from their clothing.

Still. Something must be done, and now even Will has begun to look hopeful, taking his thoughtful silence as evidence of a plan.

"Is there anything you can do, Doc?" Ben asks when he can no longer contain himself.

Hannibal nods slowly. "Bring me the surgical tools and as many transfusion bags as you can spare. If you have access to leech blood, would any of you know how to brew an antidote?"

"Sure, Theo would," Meg says, jerking her chin at the boy on the bed. "Luckily we've got a few stored up in case someone comes down with Swamp Fever."

"Has it ever been tested as a means to counter sepsis?"

Meg and Ben trade glances, but neither seem to have any answers. "I couldn't tell you," Meg admits after a moment. "Most times it doesn't get this far."

"Then with your permission--and your narcotics--I'll do what I can."

Ben nods once and darts through the door to bring the items Hannibal requested. Meg says nothing for a long moment, the scarred corner of her mouth tucking in as she takes a deep breath through her nose. "Just so you know," she says with a sigh that steals the starch from her shoulders, "we won't hold it against you if the kid doesn't make it."

Shrugging out of the jacket of his armor, Hannibal glances at the bed as he turns up the cuffs of his coarse white shirt. With Will looking on, the entire process is almost nostalgic. "Yes, but I believe Iphigenia will not be nearly so forgiving." Perking up at the sound of her name, the little beast trills, regarding him with the pleading trust of one of Will's dogs. Whatever she's gleaned from the situation, she knows at least that her human is ill and needs help. "I'd hate to disappoint her."

Meg runs a hand over her face, scrubbing away all emotion. "I should get her out of here so you can work. Is there anything else you need?"

"Needle. Thread. Hot water for sterilization. Cloths and bandages."

Meg nods. "The usual. I'm on it."

She scoops up the little dinosaur as she leaves, hushing its protesting barks in a strained undertone.

When only the two of them are left, Will tips his head toward the bed. "You really think you can help him?" There's no judgment in his tone; from the pitying twist of his mouth, he shares Meg's opinion that the boy is dead but for the burial. "We're pretty far from Johns Hopkins."

Hannibal nods. "I can guarantee nothing but the betterment of his odds, I'm afraid. But I do intend to do all I can."

Will meets his eyes for a long moment, seeing him with the clarity he craves. Understanding dawns with a swiftness he can only regard with pride. "You want to test how well the magic potions work."

Will's perfectly neutral tone gives him pause. He forgets--he lets himself forget--that while Will sees the whole of him, it's no guarantee that he'll like all he sees. "It seems a useful thing to know," Hannibal replies cautiously. If he's disappointed Will...if Will expects new behaviors to accompany their new start....

It's hard to tell whether the soft breath that escapes Will is a huff of derision or a snort of laughter, but the look Hannibal receives chides him to keep up. "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten who I'm with. Let's just try not to wear out our welcome here like we did back home," he says, mouth tightening as his eyes focus inward. He looks tired, rueful, but not ashamed.

"Agreed," Hannibal says without a second thought. He consoles himself that he's made the right choice--the bounds of their world have narrowed considerably, and starting over yet again would be difficult if not impossible--but mostly it's that unthinking 'we' that decides him.

Will looks surprised, but only for a moment. The pleased little half-smile he tries to tuck away makes any amount of compromise worth it.

"Well," Hannibal says briskly as he turns back to the bed, giving Will the space to recover his dignity. "What I'm about to do will likely be unpleasant. Will you feel comfortable assisting me, or...?"

Will looks at their patient and then back to Hannibal, nervous but game. "What do you need me to do?"

***

What stays with Will when he thinks back on that afternoon is the smell. Thick, indescribable, like something he'd expect to be called in to investigate. Though his stomach hitches several times during the procedure, he keeps it together, his hands ruthlessly steady as he follows Hannibal's directions. What feels like an assault on his own senses must be ten times worse for Hannibal, but you'd never know it from his composed expression.

It's not like taking down Tier or the Dragon, or even like transforming Chiyoh's prisoner. The blood that slicks his hands doesn't move him to anything but pity. He's not sure he should be so relieved by that, but as Hannibal would say, it's a useful thing to know.

It seems to take forever, and more than once people stop by to look in, offer assistance, then flee if no requests are forthcoming. Hannibal neither ignores them nor encourages them, working steadily through the afternoon. Kate comes by at one point with food for the Allosaur, and Will watches through the window as the pair size each other up, two predators determining whether the ceasefire will hold. When she leaves the meat behind, Alkanas sniffs it critically, but eventually decides he can relax his standards, just this once.

Just as Will's about to ask if Hannibal needs a break, Hannibal nods in satisfaction and reaches for needle and thread. "Another blood pack," he instructs as Will sits cautiously back, ready to jump in again if Hannibal needs him. "Then we'll allow our patient to rest."

It's startling how much better the kid looks already. There's color back in his face, his breathing steady though he's still far under. Will readies the transfusion while Hannibal stitches the boy up, and has the dubious honor of administering it himself. "It's good practice," Hannibal encourages him, beginning to clean away the blood.

Will doesn't really want to think about why he might need to know how to find a vein in a hurry or the right pressure with which to feed blood back into the body, but Hannibal is Hannibal. An unstoppable force most of the time, but only a fool would trust him to slow down in the face of injury.

Theo's wound closes seamlessly around Hannibal's neat stitching, half-healed in minutes, though not as completely as Will would have expected. Hannibal notices as well, humming thoughtfully as he tests the thickness of the scar tissue with a clinical touch. "Interesting. And not magical at all."

"The potions?" He'd been joking about that. Mostly. It's almost a relief to know the island's farcical alchemy has its limits.

"Merely a science we don't yet understand. If it requires the body's own reserves for fuel...I wonder if nanites might somehow be involved."

Will tries to hide his surprise, but he's not sure how well he succeeds. He's well aware of Hannibal's ferocious intelligence; it's just that he seems so old-fashioned at times, it would almost be easier to picture him in the robes of a court wizard than the lab coat of a scientist.

"Well, considering we're probably several decades away from being able to test that, I suppose it's a moot point."

"Perhaps," Hannibal agrees mildly, but his dissatisfaction prickles between them like static after a storm.

Hannibal doesn't seem fazed at being mobbed the moment he steps out of the cabin, but after years of placating families post-op, he must be used to it. Alkanas isn't nearly so patient, but a few soothing words from Hannibal mollifies the beast. The crowd draws back a little under the weight of those narrowed eyes, but a few of them stand their ground.

"Doc?" Ben asks, glancing past Hannibal to the still-open door at his back. "Is he...?"

"Still sedated, but with adequate rest, I believe he should make a full recovery."

Ben's jaw isn't the only one to drop as a hush falls over the tribe. Watching faces pinched with worry light up with dawning joy reminds Will of why he stayed in law enforcement so long. Part of him wishes this victory could be so uncomplicated, but then Hannibal wouldn't be Hannibal.

Whoops and incredulous shouts burst from the crowd, and Hannibal allows it for a moment before raising his hand. "I know you'd all like to see him, but please limit your visits to one person at a time. Sleep is the best medicine now, though a few medical brews when he feels up to it would not go amiss."

Kate elbows Ben in the side with a grin. "You heard the man. Go brood over your chick, Mother."

Smile incandescent, Ben strides up to Hannibal with his hand outstretched. " _Thank you_ ," he says as he clasps Hannibal's palm within both of his. "If there's ever anything I can do for you, just say the word." He gives Hannibal's hand another firm shake, and then he's off, all but vaulting the short flight of steps leading up to the cabin. The welcoming trill from inside makes Will grin; clearly one member of the tribe isn't concerned with doctor's orders in the slightest.

With Ben having opened the floodgates, the congratulations come thick and fast, Will garnering his own share though he tries to fade back, protesting Hannibal did all the work.

"Nonsense," Hannibal scoffs. "A surgeon is only as good as his support."

"Did that hurt to say?" Kate teases, almost giddy now the crisis has passed.

"Only a little," Hannibal replies, straight-faced until Will starts to laugh.

Meg draws them aside as the crowd begins to dissipate, her lopsided smile warm. "Well, I don't know how you did it, and I hope never to find out firsthand, but thank you. I'd say you more than earned any help we can provide. The information we'd have given you for free," she admits with a touch of rue. The coldest part of Will agrees--this group is too soft for the cutthroat world they've described--but the better parts of him know there's strength in community. "If there's anything we can get for you, name it."

Hannibal turns to him first for the second time that day, and Will resolves to put real thought into deciphering this new habit. Later, when he can give it the attention it deserves. "Uh...hammer and nails? I've got a good start on a temporary shelter, but we're going to want something more permanent if there's any kind of rainy season."

"Easily done," Meg says with a nod. "I'd offer you both a place here, but if you plan on practicing medicine in these parts," she says, turning to Hannibal, "you'll want to stay neutral. Once word gets out there's a doctor on the island again, you're going to be a hot commodity, trust me."

"Again?" Hannibal enquires politely. "Should I ask what happened to the last doctor?"

Meg grimaces. "He didn't stay neutral. Decided he wasn't going to treat the Red Hand anymore, so they up and took him. I don't think he lasted long, though no one's heard anything for sure."

"I see. Well. I'd like a word with your smith, if I may, about acquiring the tools of my trade. And perhaps...would a saddle for Alkanas be amongst the excess supplies Ben mentioned?"

Will blinks, trying to imagine Hannibal sitting astride that monster and--of course he can picture it, Hannibal sitting like a king where mere mortals would run.

Meg grins, cheered by their sensible requests or else at the prospect of having a doctor right next door. "If it's not, we'll make one. Having a reliable pair of legs under you can make all the difference." She sobers almost in the next breath, shaking her head. "In all seriousness, though...if the Red Hand come calling, you do what you need to do. No one's going to fault you for surviving."

Will thinks Kate at least might disagree with that statement, but of more concern is Hannibal's tiny smile. "I assure you," Hannibal says, canting his body forward in a genteel little bow, "I've always taken great pride in my hospitality. If they insist on inviting themselves to my table, a place for them will certainly be made."

Will grits his teeth to hold back a groan, but Meg isn't nearly so restrained. With a hoot of laughter that has her splaying a hand across her stomach, she draws eyes from all over the camp with her unabashed hilarity. Hannibal, the bastard, just looks smugly pleased that someone besides Will finally gets the joke.

"Uh-huh," Meg chuckles as she gets her breath back, her smile wicked. "Well, if your Allo gets fat and lazy off your dinner guests, don't come crying to us."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Hannibal promises.

"It's not too late to drown the both of us," Will mutters under his breath the minute they're alone. He wants to kick himself almost instantly.

That threat would have been so much more effective if he'd suggested one of them would be going alone.

***

Night falls before Lovely-Bright's soft-skin slips from his berry-slime induced stupor into gentle sleep, and until then, she doesn't budge from his side. The other soft-skins bring her food and praise, and a few stroke her shining sides with careful paws. She allows it without a nip; she knows they can't help themselves.

It's hard to contain her joy. She wants to carol her good news to the treetops, but sleeping time is quiet time, or soft-skins get grumpy. The soft-skin tribe's alpha might chase Lovely-Bright out to be noisy somewhere else, and she'll be in _so_ much trouble if she bites.

Still. She has to tell _someone_.

She waits until she's absolutely positive her soft-skin won't die the minute she takes her eyes off him before hopping from the bed and pacing out into the camp beyond. The soft-skins' tame fires crackle at regular intervals, but she could have found her way without them. The scent of Ravener is unmistakable, and it leads her to a massive shadow standing guard outside one of the wooden soft-skin caves.

Tipping her head far back, Lovely-Bright eyes the Ravener fearlessly. "Your soft-skin," she says in an exuberant chirp. "Soft-skins?" she wonders aloud. There _had_ been two, though only one of them had smelled like the Ravener. Then again, soft-skins are terribly fond of water.

"Just the one," the Ravener replies after a long moment, shifting slowly from foot to foot. "The other is probably his mate."

He doesn't sound entirely sure of that, but Lovely-Bright likes how tidy that sounds. The best news--the news that carries the furthest--is the simplest. "Your soft-skin and his mate," she echoes faithfully back, adding a trill to her bark.

From the bushes by the pond, something comes awake with a sharp rustle. "The soft-skin and his mate!" another Hordeling takes up the call, still half-asleep.

Oh. Oh, now that sounds familiar. "The soft-skin Ravener?" she asks, remembering a tale she'd thought had grown hopelessly muddled over the telling.

The Ravener before her rumbles with amusement. "He is indeed."

Now that's exciting. And strange. And new! "The soft-skin Ravener," she corrects herself gamely, "and his mate! They helped. Fixed."

"Fixed!" the other Hordeling choruses back, shaking himself off and coming out into the light. He's not one of her tribe, but he could be. Maybe even tomorrow. "The soft-skin Ravener and his mate!"

"Mine was hurt. Dying. They helped." She flicks her crest in gratitude, lifting her chin a fraction more to briefly bare her throat. Manners seen to, she adds, "I'll still bite them if they try to hurt mine."

Another quiet rumble, more amused than the last. "Careful. Mine may bite back."

She lashes her tail, listening with only half an ear as other voices wake to take up the news, chorusing it back from the heights and then onward.

Of course a soft-skin Ravener bites. It's all right there in the name.

***

"The soft-skin Ravener!" Grimeshell-Killer hears, and nearly goes back to sleep. Surely that hatchling tale had already run its course. "And his mate!"

Grimeshell-Killer comes fully awake with a snort. "Mate?" he calls back uncertainly. That's a _new_ piece of news. Could the first half of it actually be the truth?

"The softskin-Ravener's mate!" comes the answer, with the certainty of one who's heard it secondhand, no more than third. "They helped! Fixed! Did you hear?"

***

"Fixed?" Leaps-From-Rocks echoes, incredulous. Soft-skins are fascinating, he'll be the first to admit, and far be it from him to cast aspersions on the chorus' ears, but--

"Fixed the hurts!" the chorus upstream insists, trilling with delight.

"But...one bites?" he reminds them cautiously. He's sure he remembers that bit of news correctly.

"One bites!" the chorus agrees. "One helps!"

"The soft-skin Ravener's mate?"

"The soft-skin Ravener's mate!"

Leaps-From-Rocks turns that over in his head, finds it makes sense, and fixes it clear in his mind. Then he throws his head back with a high, sharp bark that can be heard for miles.

"Did you hear? Did you? Did you hear?"

***

There's more competition for food and den space in the hills where the snow gives way to green, but Rimefoot's pack does well enough for itself. Since moving down out of the mountains, they've seen years of full bellies and fat pups, collected countless stories and songs. What more could a Singer pack ask for?

Except maybe--

"--did you? Did you hear?"

\--a little peace and quiet.

"They're at it again?" Snowjaw grumbles with a hint of a whine, grey ears folding back. He's been her mate for three litters now, as solid and steady as he is tireless in the hunt. Their Keeper of Winters, he has even less use for the Horde than most Singers. "What is it this time?"

"Something about the mate of a soft-skin Ravener," Rimefoot replies, huffing a laugh at her mate's incredulous look. "If you're ever hurt, it might help you, supposedly."

"Moon fancies," Snowjaw scoffs, plopping down in the snow to scratch his ruff.

Rimefoot isn't so sure. This is twice the Horde has mentioned the same soft-skin, and neither their memories nor their imaginations are that good. If there is some mad soft-skin running about--and all soft-skins are a little mad, or they wouldn't keep inviting anyone they can catch back to their dens--it might be wise to learn the bounds of its territory...and which one is the Ravener, and which is the mate.

**Author's Note:**

> Some videos for reference--I'd view these in HD, as for some reason they look blurry in YT otherwise--can be found here:
> 
> [Ark vids](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCBXMs7rGsi1ZBc7EHKOSjKQ)
> 
> They're a bit long-winded, sorry! "Ark 04" shows the path Hannibal and Will (and the Avengers in "Survival Quotient") took to reach their destinations. It also shows the house I built for Hannibal and Will, because I am a gigantic nerd. "Raptor hunting" is just that, but filmed from the back of one of Will's (eventual) dire wolves. "Giga comparison" is just a size comparison between a Giganotosaurus, a T-Rex, and a Utahraptor, illustrating why the monster dino from the first chapter of this fic had everything fleeing in terror. XD


End file.
